A Breton Vintage
by CaptainWolfe11
Summary: Cerisier Doux. Years ago, she shared a bottle with the boy who helped her escape the Gold Coast. He gave her freedom, and in return, she gave him a single gold coin. She was having a glass when the letter came, inviting her home. But what home was it referring to? Female Vestige X Speaker Terenus. Includes various ESO characters.
1. We Know

_**Welcome all to my first ESO Fanfiction! I wanted to do something with the Dark Brotherhood DLC, so be warned, there are spoilers for the**_ ** _quest line! If all goes well, I should post a new chapter every week or so. It's a work in progress, so reviews help me address any inconsistencies in my writing and are very appreciated._**

 ** _Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for my character, Thérèse._**

The stone walls rose on all sides, threatening to choke her—to fall in on top of her head. How long had it been since she had seen those stones, those careless, useless bulwarks? Not long enough, it seemed.

But then, why had she returned here? The letter? No, she knew it wasn't _just_ the letter. She was curious about her old life, and the woman she could have been. Not to mention the more recent past that was chasing her. It would be good to get away for awhile, and let the Covenant survive without the Vestige.

The long alley-shadows shivered with anticipation. They hadn't really changed, but they certainly looked different when they weren't soaked with rain. She sighed and pursed her lips, feeling a memory cast terror along her spine. She tried not to focus on the chill in her bones, but it crept up her back like a wraith. With a slight shake of her head, she banished the thoughts. It was a warm summer's day, and nothing could touch her here. Of course, the day was ending, and dusk was looming, but she was not as afraid of the dark anymore, and for good reason.

She thought over what Amelie had said. The Dark Brotherhood was recruiting, hmm? Of course, it explained her letter, and the small black hand that had been inked in under the words. She hadn't expected her reputation to pervade this long time, and she had changed her name…it was truly intriguing how the Brotherhood had found her.

She had an anger, a righteous fury, and it rattled and trembled to be free. Lately, with so much undead to slaughter, it had been channeled to a holier cause. But, somewhere deep inside her, in a place she had long forgotten, she missed the smell of blood, of salt and iron. Her demons struggled even harder here, against the chains of a fake life. They longed to return her to the visceral memories she had suppressed, and she didn't much care for fighting them.

Perhaps it would not be too bad to embrace the Brotherhood. Long ago, she had almost accepted the invitation, but she wasn't ready then. Truly, there were plenty of people who deserved the Black Sacrament. Glenumbra had taught her that.

But if she chose to invite the Dark Brotherhood, she would have to kill an innocent, and she didn't know if she wanted to stalk the streets of Anvil like a senche-tiger. Hmph, innocent _was_ a very objective word. You didn't have to be a criminal to be guilty. Her dark lips twitched. It was a lesson she had learned early. Something nudged her arm and she turned her head with a frown. Oh, it was just her clannefer. She'd almost forgotten she hadn't dispelled it. It nudged her again, then looked very intently in one direction.

It was a small alley in between two pubs, and it was almost as dark as night. She reached a hand out and touched her daedra, and he disintegrated into mist.

She tilted her head to the side and listened. Nothing, just the wind and her breathing. Still, she dropped into a crouch and pressed up against one of the buildings. Then, she heard it. A muffled whine, like someone's hand was over another's mouth. Her heart started beating faster, and a sharp frown appeared on her face. Following her ears, the sorceress peered around the corner.

He had a hand over her mouth, and was leaning in towards the poor girl, pressing her to the wall. "Just relax sweetheart." He said, his voice a dark parody of kind words. He laughed. It was a sickly, perverted laugh that reeked of too much gold and selfish power.

She felt the slow, smoking rage warm its coals in her heart. It wasn't a flash fire, it wasn't a fuse snapping. No, it was a lumbering malice, stretching itself awake from it's slumber. She knew some dark fate had led her to this.

Thérèse glanced down to her hand to see that a dagger had already been summoned there, still smoking with Oblivion.

This was ridiculous. Not minutes before she had been contemplating murder, and now this? Sithis was the god of the Brotherhood, wasn't he? Well, he must be laughing in whatever realm he commanded, because this…this was just twisted fate. Gods it was almost the same alley—A new, fresh whimper came from the shadows, and her jaw clenched. It didn't matter who's ethereal hand shaped the events transpiring, she wasn't going to stand here, and she wasn't going to keep watching. Every Divine in heaven knew that. Sithis knew that. She stepped forward, and her inky black homespun clothes let her melt into the darkness. Quickly, as if she'd done it a thousand times, she reached forward, covered his mouth, and snaked her blade-heavy arm around him. His throat was slit ear to ear in a practiced instant. She angled the blood away from the poor girl, and let the body drop, like a dead weight.

A hollow gasp came from the young thing's mouth. If she had more air, she probably would have screamed. The dagger blew away in the wind, and Thérèse turned, covering the girl's mouth. Her struggles were faint—she was probably tired from trying to get away from the corpse at their feet. "Listen carefully. I don't want to hurt you. I was just stopping him from hurting you." Her eyes were starting to adjust to the dark, and she could see that the girl had light hair and light eyes, most likely blonde and blue. She was young, probably around sixteen. "Now I'm going to let you go. Please, don't scream, alright?" Through her terror, the girl nodded minutely.

Thérèse's shoulder's sagged as she finally relaxed, letting her hand slip away from the girl's mouth. "Go then, and don't tell the guards."

The girl nodded again, then looked down at the body. "T-Thank you." She breathed out. It was more of a choking breath, really. Then, without looking her savior in the eye, she rushed away.

The sorceress sighed. Was Anvil made of molesters? She set her jaw and shook her head. That girl had been fortunate.

After a moment lost in memory, Thérèse turned to go back to the docks. That had been eventful, to say the least, and if anyone was going to appreciate what she had just done, it was going to be Amelie.

When she emerged on the docks, the smell of salt and iron barraged her once more, and she quickly glanced down at her black attire. No blood, at least that you could see. Well, that was good. She walked down the wooden ramps, subconsciously taking some small delight at the sound of her footfalls on the wood.

When Amelie wasn't where she should have been, Thérèse froze. Her forehead held the barest of frowns as the woman turned to survey the length of the dock before her.

"Hey, you there!" She jumped and her fingers sparked on instinct, turning to the noise. Scenarios rushed to her head. Had the guards found her? Did someone recognize her? A man was standing at the top of the ramp, but he looked common enough. Thérèse sighed and let her arms fall to her sides, but the shiver in her spine remained. That was one thing about murder she didn't really miss—the unstable hand of adrenaline.

The man jogged down the ramp. "I have something for you, a letter. Confidential, secret, for your eyes only." He patted his pockets. "Ah! Here it is." He frowned when he read the slip of paper attached to it. "Funny, I'm supposed to extend a…verbal invitation to the lighthouse along with the letter. Strange, you think they'd just, write that in there." He shrugged. "The lighthouse is just right over there." He pointed to the building across from the bay. It was tall and impressive, like all lighthouses were. It was strange, that the invitation was verbal. "I'm just glad I found you." The courier interrupted her thoughts. "After looking for that woman with the eye patch all day, I figured I was in for a late night."

Thérèse blinked. "An eye patch? Where did she go?" Did she get the same letter? Were they both invitations to the Dark Brotherhood?

The courier looked confused. "Amelie Crowe. Do you know her?" He shrugged it off. "I gave her a letter too, she looked excited to receive it. She read it and just hurried away. Well, I have to go, lots more deliveries to do before I can rest for the day." He waved a large hand as a goodbye and turned away.

Did he know what sort of letters he was carrying? Likely not. She smiled a little to herself. She cast her brown eyes around the bay before slipping a thumb beneath the folds of the paper. The wax broke with a crisp snap. When she unfolded it, one chestnut eyebrow rose sharply. It was…a hand. A black hand.

She exhaled and burned the paper to ash in a fireball. Naturally, her gaze drifted up towards the lighthouse. Well, what was she waiting for? It certainly wasn't too long of a walk.

The sun here certainly beat down with more force than it did in Glenumbra. It was warm here, and heat radiated from every stone and every grain of sand, even after the sun had set. Though she wasn't used to it, she didn't mind it. The day was holding on with the barest of threads when she finally stepped up to the door of the lighthouse.

She raised her hand to knock, but then shook her head. What fool assassin knocks? Instead, she opened the door and slipped in, just as night seemed to finally take its hold over Anvil. The sound of firecracks lent a warm feeling to the room, and she stepped further into the glow involuntarily. That was when she saw him.

He was robed in darkness, it seemed, and he lounged against the back of the armchair. Steely, focused eyes stared into the flames, and one hand flipped a gold coin endlessly around its nimble fingers.

She saw her, too. Just the edge of her head, slumping at an odd angle out of the chair that had its back to her. A limp hand extended to the floor.

The soft sound of a coin brushing cloth brought her gaze up from the pale corpse, and her eyes once again fixed on the endless, elegant rotation of that single gold coin.

"Come closer, and let me look into your eyes." His voice was softer than she'd expected, and tinged with shadow. The cultured, measured tone further instilled in her the sense that the Brotherhood really was a business—a business unlike any other.

Her feet carried her in, and the full view of the corpse didn't seem to bother her. Death was a companion of hers, and he seldom kept her lonely. A dagger stuck out of the woman's still chest, and blood soaked her silk gown.

Thérèse cut off the light of the fire as she stepped up to him, and a shadow was cast over his face. His eyes somehow remained bright, and he looked right into her. He nodded to himself. "No remorse, no mercy. Yes, you do have the eyes of a killer." He paused. What was it that people saw in her eyes that told of murder? It was nothing she could see in a mirror. "How many lives ended looking into those eyes?" He seemed to dismiss his own question, continuing in pace, "Enough that the Night Mother noticed, obviously, which brings us both to this place and time." His eyes, which had previously drifted past her, returned to her face. Even though she was standing above him, she felt smaller, somehow. What was it about those eyes…she was no poet, and she wasn't one to pontificate endlessly over 'deep pools' or 'shining orbs' when it came to attraction…but his eyes stood out to her. They reminded her of…something. Memory tugged at her robes, and she shook it away.

There was a crate a little behind her and to the side, with an open book spread across it. She swiftly closed it and set it on her lap, taking a seat not too far from him. His face was now in the light in full. "Who are you?" She asked, voice kept calm and reserved. She felt no fear, no regret, and no unease.

He continued to regard her, and she knew that he could probably kill her easily. Those eyes had already sized her up tidily. All that was left for her to do was to be civil.

"I am Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. I speak with the voice of the Night Mother. We have been watching you." Those eyes came back up to hers for a long moment before glancing down into the flames once more. "You can deal death, but you lack purpose. We can change that…if you are willing."

If she was willing. Just like that. A family, a guild, a safe haven, and a…purpose. Heaven knows she'd been struggling with that. Fresh out of hell with no soul to show for it, she was an empty shell banished to a life of defeating Mannimarco's treachery wherever it appeared. Only, it appeared everywhere, and she was tired of being used like a tool. The Prophet told her that her purpose was to save Tamriel, but his words were vague and veiled in Aetherial prophecy. And still, he hadn't called her to the Harborage in two months. Was Sai hidden so completely that the Prophet could not even scry him?

"Such conflict in your eyes." Mused the Speaker, his voice a tenebrous and alluring thing. "Has life twisted you so far from the bloodlust in your heart?"

Thérèse blinked and looked up, brought back to the current predicament by his on point observation. This time she paid further attention to his eyes. They were silver, like polished steel, and though they were so bright, they still seemed to fit in with his overall dark demenor. Learned eyes, like hers, she supposed. He had seen much of humanity. Perhaps that was what made them both murderers. She finally looked away, into the fire, lip quirking into a reserved smile. "Well, undead don't seem to shed much blood."

The Speaker shifted slightly in his seat, observing the coin that was once again flicking through his fingers. "Ah, yes, the defeat of Angof. Such a noble deed for such a dark soul, wouldn't you agree?"

Something about the mention of her soul made her clench her jaw in minor irritation. "I don't have a soul." Her voice was much sterner than she had thought it would be, and it clashed with the shadows they had been talking in.

The coin stopped. "The girl you saved today would disagree." The gold piece disappeared into his clenched fist. "The weak deserve their proportioned award."

Her eyes fell dull and her softer features seemed to harden, though she made no motion whatsoever. "I was weak once."

His eyes snapped to her face, and a satisfied crook appeared on his lips. "Now there is the murderer, emerging from her slumber." He waved a hand at her. "It matters not who you saved, but who you silenced. You take lives easily, and we know that you can kill. If you want to join us, show me that you can obey."

She blinked and looked down at her hands, which were folded neatly together. All this talk really was just talk. They both knew what choice she would make, what choice she had to make.

She was not a 'good' person. She knew that in her heart. The anger, hate, and spite she felt for mankind was always there, lurking inside. A seed left there long ago by the cruelty of a man and the selfishness of her parents. She did what she could to help the world. After all, she was a part of it. But spilling blood was her business, and she did it well. Why be alone in that?

"I will…consider your offer." She supplied, looking back up.

"Splendid!" The coin flipped in midair and was caught with a little bit of jaunt. "We shall see how well you marry business with death. But first, allow me to present you with a gift." He focused more on her, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "I shall teach you how to call upon a particular tool of our trade."

She frowned. "What sort of tool?" She had always made due with the tools she had.

He smiled a dark smile. "A tool for dealing death, of course. One forged by unseen hands." A hand extended out, and curling tendrils of shadow coalesced to form an ebony blade. It was slightly longer than a dagger, but shorter than a short-sword, and standing out from the black were lines of gold filigree. He tossed it into the air and caught it by the blade, offering the hilt out to her. "The Blade of Woe."

She extended a hand and grasped the metal hilt. It sent a shiver through her arm and through her spine. It was colder than mortal metal ought to be.

"Wield it from the shadows and its edge shall deliver your prey to Sithis in the Void."

As the cold settled into her hand and her bones, it grew comforting and solid. She smiled. "I accept your gift, Speaker."

He nodded, satisfied, and the blade fell away into darkness. It left a strange feeling in her heart, like she wasn't completely whole. "In return, I expect only unwavering loyalty and ruthless efficiency. Now, let us discuss the task before you. A killing that shall form a covenant between us, signed in blood." He rose and walked to the mantlepiece, grasping a dark bottle by the neck. It was already uncorked. Two glasses were right next to it, and he snatched those too. With a calm and measured hand, he set the glasses on the table in between the armchairs and filled them half full. The bottom of the bottle hit the wooden table with a dull thud as it was set down heavily. "To the Night Mother."

It was with hesitation that Thérèse received the glass. It wasn't a normal practice of hers to drink wine given to her by an assassin. She supposed, however, that she wasn't a threat to the Brotherhood, only an asset. They had no reason to poison her. This was probably a test, though she didn't know of what. Her wit, maybe? Perhaps her resolve…Would she drink the wine, or refuse it? The problem was, if it was a test, she didn't know which side was favored.

The wine was a deep red, almost like blood. She would have thought it was, if not for the aroma. She caught the smell and raised a brow. Cherry wine, a vintage. Her favorite. "To the Night Mother." She smiled with reservation and sipped the wine.

He regarded her silently for what must have been half a minute, eyes sharp as ever and mouth somewhat upturned. He seemed to remind himself of the task at hand and took a breath.

"The Imperial noble, Lord Quintus Jarol, has been marked for death by the Black Sacrament. Your task is simple. Find Jarol and kill him."

A noble. That meant lots of guards and a large house. She took another measured sip of her wine, plans of infiltration already entering her mind. "Why has he been marked for death." She asked, looking up from her glass.

The Speaker leaned towards her somewhat, and the action struck Thérèse as odd. She couldn't quite put a finger on why… "That isn't a question we ask. Suffice it to say, he offended someone enough to get them to preform the Black Sacrament. The Night Mother heard their prayer, and now Jarol must die. This is the task I have set before you." His free hand swept across the air, palm up.

Thérèse swirled the wine absently in her glass. It was just like mercenary work, but quieter, and with less death for the lackeys. She nodded to him. "I'll kill Quintus Jarol, but I have questions I want answers for first."

He looked at her sideways, then gave a nod. "Very well. The noble's estate can be found northwest of Anvil, along the Gold Road." His empty wine glass hit the wooden table softly, like a shadowed kiss. "How you perform the execution is up to you. Just make sure Lord Quintus Jarol dies by your hand. Then your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete." A hand gestured to her. "But you have more questions."

She took a delicate sip, savoring the dark wine on her lips, absently noting the slight frustration in his voice. "You mentioned the Night Mother. Who is she, exactly? I've read about Sithis in books, but not her."

He smiled into the fire. "You ask a question with many answers. To put it simply, the Night Mother is the one true bride of Sithis. She is our Unholy Matron, and we are her children, forever wrapped in her cold, loving embrace."

She'd never known there was another deity in Dark Brotherhood lore. The Night Mother sounded different, though, as if she were almost…alive? "Is she your leader then?"

The Speaker chuckled, and it was a sound altogether…strange, on his lips. Too…normal, too earthlike. "There will be time enough for existential talk later, and I'd be happy to discuss the truth of our Matron, but the time is not now. Just know that she watches you. She loves you, like she loves all of her children. Be careful not to disappoint her." His voice, normally so dark, turned soft and reverent as he spoke of the Night Mother. Something that elicited such tenderness from the shrouded man that sat before her was something she truly wished to explore. But, as he said, another time would probably be best. She fished around for the other question that had been rattling around in her skull.

"And the Black Sacrament? What is that?"

He quelled his irritation visibly at her questioning, and for some reason, it made her lips twitch in amusement. "The Black Sacrament is the ritual by which a client procures the Dark Brotherhood's services. Using an effigy of the intended victim, the client pleads for the Night Mother to send an assassin to end the specified life." His steely eyes locked onto hers. "With no remorse, no regret."

She wasn't affected by his gaze, she only nodded with interest at the impromptu cultural lesson. "So the Brotherhood, in part, is a group of paid assassins?"

He nodded, fingering his gold coin. "To put it simply, yes. The lives of the innocent and the guilty alike are ours for the taking. And every soul goes to Sithis, as long as the price is paid. Death is our craft, our religion, and our trade." His mouth split into a sinister grin, so otherworldly, yet so…familiar. "And business, as always, is good."

So the Brotherhood was a mix of business and spirituality. Quite like the religion around here, it seemed. Only, from where she stood, the Brotherhood seemed to be the more honest entity. "Well, I'm assuming Jarol has a large country estate, with high walls and paid protection. Any advice on the surrounding terrain?" She was expecting him to brush her off, but it was always good to ask, especially if someone knew more than you, which he did.

He straightened up and regarded her casually, all irritation at her questions gone. "The wise traveler asks for directions before the path diverges. Never hesitate to rely on your fellow Brotherhood members once you complete your initiation. Killing requires few special skills, but reaching your target? That's the real task, isn't it? There is another way to reach the estate grounds, if you're interested."

Well, diligence had its rewards, it seemed. Thérèse smiled, realizing suddenly how relaxed she was, in the dark, fire-lit room. "I am interested."

He smiled slyly. "I thought you might be. A series of smuggler tunnels runs beneath the Withered Rose and leads directly to the estate's courtyard. That's the route I would take. And don't forget to bring lockpicks. Jarol is a cautious man. He never leaves a door unlocked behind him." She hid her distaste at the mention of lockpicks by taking a poised sip of her wine.

"And the Withered Rose is…?"

"A small hostel outside the city." He paused, and looked at her. His eyes looked…intense, yet they held a hint of…no, it couldn't be pity. Whatever it was, it made his features soften slightly. "A lovely mother and daughter own the place, but they've had trouble making ends meet. The smuggler tunnels provide them with an alternate source of income. And they're perfect for your needs." The sorceress nodded, glancing down with a hint of remorse at the bottom of her empty cup. "Now," he sighed, "do you have any more questions?"

Her lip twitched. "Actually, yes." When she glanced up, she had to hold back a smile at the look of restrained frustration in his eyes. "Is it hard to wash the paint off of your hand?"

He blinked and held her eyes for a moment, before he sighed. "No harder than it is to wash off blood."

She pushed down her smile and set her empty cup on the crate beside her, rising. "Thank you for the wine, Speaker." She crossed in front of him as she walked to the door.

Just as her hand met the doorknob, she heard his voice behind her. "An old Breton vintage."

Something about those words gave her pause. The cant of them felt practiced, like old leather. Familiar and new at the same time. Her head tilted to the side and she frowned slightly. Not being able to place the feeling, she stepped out the door.

The brisk sea air greeted her, warm with water and wet with night. The frown deepened, sending crevices along her fair skin. She was missing something. Something important had transpired, hidden in the bottom of a wine glass, cast in the shadows of the fire, and the feeling of familiarity clutched at her robes like a beggar.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she banished the thoughts to the breeze. She would need all her wits for the task set before her.

As she went, she wasn't aware of the eyes that were watching her go.


	2. Signed in Blood

_**Second chapter! I'd like to thank the person who reviewed, it made me happy:) Enjoy!**_

 _ **Again, I don't own anything other than Thérèse.**_

* * *

"I'd like a room for the night, please." Thérèse smiled at the matron behind the counter.

The woman, dark-haired and beginning to show wrinkles, smiled back fondly. "That will be ten gold pieces, then, dear."

She frowned. "Only ten?" No wonder they were having trouble making ends meet. That was a pittance compared to the city inns.

The older woman smiled, and worry showed through. "Akatosh commands us to show kindness to those in need. You shouldn't have to empty your coinpurse for a roof over your head and a soft bed."

Well, she was the first person she'd met in the last few days that mentioned Akatosh and then _actually_ embodied his commandments, instead of spouting nonsense. "Very well. I'm sure your kindness is appreciated."

She took her money and tucked it away at a purse by her side. "My daughter will show you to your room. Lucinia!"

A young girl entered through the back door, apron covered in soil. "Yes, mum?" Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her eyes were the shape of almonds, silver grey.

"Could you show this lady to her room, dear?"

Those eyes flitted over to her, and she smiled demurely. "Of course, right this way." She gestured for her to follow her, and she did.

They went up the stairs and entered a long hallway, with doors on either side. Lucinia led her to the very end of the hallway, and opened a door with a key. "This is your room, ma'am. You missed dinner, but there should be some stew left in the pot if you'd like me to bring you some up."

At the mention of food, her stomach growled. In the excitement of the evening, she'd forgotten to eat dinner, and had her wine on an empty stomach. "That would be wonderful."

Lucinia nodded. "Some wine too?"

She wouldn't mind a glass, but she knew she would hate herself later if her head wasn't perfectly clear for the kill. "No, thank you."

"Very well, ma'am." She descended down the stairs, and her footsteps were loud and heavy. It wasn't as if she were bumbling about, but after being surrounded by assassins, they stood out. But, it was a good sign. That girl wasn't used to sneaking around in places she didn't belong.

Her eyes were peculiar too. Gray, like the Speaker's, though not as striking as his. It must be an Imperial trait. She was only used to the blue and green eyes of most Bretons, and her own dark hazel ones.

She returned shortly with a bowl of mutton stew, just warmed. "Here you are. If you need anything at all, just ask for me or my mum."

"I will." By the Eight she hoped these people didn't get in trouble because of her.

The girl turned to leave, but then stopped, and spun around. "Are you an adventurer?" She asked, voice tinged with curiosity.

An adventurer? "I suppose you could call me that. I've lived in High Rock for the past sixteen years."

Her eyes widened slightly. "High Rock? I've heard that undead are roaming in the moors there."

Thérèse laughed softly. "Not anymore. Angof, the necromancer, has been defeated." And good riddance to him. Now to take care of _the_ necromancer.

"Oh, well that's good. Who killed him?" She asked, standing in the doorway.

Thérèse paused with the spoon halfway to her lips. She blinked and set it back down in the bowl. "An adventurer, like me."

There was a pause, and then Lucinia sighed. "I think it would be nice to see more of the world. Well, I'll leave you to your dinner." She smiled with reservation and left the room, shutting the door softly.

"Huh, an Adventurer." Thérèse murmured to herself with a rueful smile.

After tucking away her dinner, she laid down on her bed, looking up at the wooden ceiling. Now all she could do is wait for the patrons to go to bed, so she could sneak down into the tunnels.

From her pocket, she produced a large bag of lockpicks and frowned at them. Her bane. She practiced with lockpicks all of the time, and she supposed that was what kept her passable at them. But she was slow and couldn't do locks that were really difficult. She only hoped that her practice could get her through the estate, with the one hundred picks she'd bought from the fence at the Refuge.

She was beginning to regret not having another glass of wine, if only because of her mounting nerves. She was controlled enough to keep her movements smooth and her hands steady when she was afraid, but she loathed the feeling of a pounding heart.

Speaking of the wine, how had the Speaker known that was her favorite vintage? It came with the trade, she supposed, but it was a little unsettling. Perhaps he was just being a gracious host.

She trained her ears for the sound of movement downstairs, and she heard some hushed talking before some footsteps and the sound of closing doors. Perhaps they had gone to bed? She listened for a few minutes longer, and heard nothing.

If she descended and they were still there, she could feign some excuse about needing something, but that would only work convincingly once, maybe twice if Nocturnal was smiling on her.

Deciding to make a move, she blew out her candles. She opened the door silently and headed down the stairs with the lightest feet she could muster.

Suddenly there was a sharp crinkling sound, made erroneously loud by her nerves. She caught her breath, and then bent down to grab what was at her feet. It was crumpled up paper. She smoothed the paper out on her stomach until it was flat, about the size of a list, or a letter. Narrowing her eyes, she snapped her fingers, and the light of a spark illuminated some of the words.

Indeed it was a letter. A letter signed by Quintus Jarol.

She looked around and saw no one, and no lights. It would probably be safe enough to read the letter here. She summoned a magelight in one hand.

 _My dearest Ladia,_

 _How are you, my dear, sweet lady? I do hope business has improved at the Withered Rose. I've always enjoyed my dalliances at your delightful little hostel, but I understand travel has been diminished through our region of late. It must pain you not to have the number of visitors that once filled your humble home._

 _But worry not! I am a man of my word, as I'm sure you know quite well by now. I shall continue to pay you a handsome stipend in exchange for ongoing access to the tunnels that run beneath my estate. Who knew that my grandfather and yours once used them to smuggle goods into and out of Anvil? I suppose it's just good fortune that we decided to carry on the old family business._

 _And in case you were concerned, I can assure you that I've extended my arrangement with the governor and her pirates. The gold will continue to flow - just so long as you keep the tunnels secret and continue to allow my associates to have ready access. Oh, and see what you can do about the spider infestation. The pirates complained after they made the last run._

 _And do let that lovely daughter of yours know that I was asking about her. Lucinia is growing up to be a most fetching young woman. Who knows? Perhaps we can work out another arrangement regarding her availability in the near future. I think I'd like that._

 _Lord Quintus Jarol_

Thérèse pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. That fetcher. Noblemen always were the same weren't they? Gold and politics silvered their tongues and poisoned their words. Speaking of the young girl as if she was something to be acquired…From the looks of her, she wasn't even eighteen yet!

She folded the paper and slipped it in her pocket, and made her way down the stairs and to the basement door. Now for the lockpicks. She pulled one out of her pouch and found the lock with a hand. She didn't need light to pick the lock, just touch and sound. She took a breath, and felt for the tumblers.

It seemed to be a simple enough lock, but seven broken picks later, her brow was beading with sweat. Why on earth was this so hard for her? You stuck the pick in, felt for the tumblers, and pressed them down, that's all. What advice had that Bosmer given her? Something ridiculous like "Be the lock"? It was impossible to be a lock, and a lock didn't have fingers to pick with!

Firelight flooded the area. "I don't think there's adventure down there."

Thérèse froze, and let her shoulders fall. "Lucinia." She couldn't get out of _this_ with words.

Lucinia stood to the side with a fireball spell in one hand, a crude but effective mimic of a magelight. A frown folded her fair forehead in two. "What are you doing?"

Maybe words _could_ get her out of this? Or at the very least, help her. "I work for Fortunata ap Dugal, the pirate queen. I believe she has an arrangement with your mother."

The girl's frown deepened, and was replaced with a hint of confusion. "My mother has an arrangement with _Jarol_." She said, voice harsh when she stressed the Lord's name.

Suddenly, Thérèse smiled. Thank Mephala for this seed of discord! "My Lady feels much the same about Quintus Jarol. She believes his efforts at protecting her cargo are halfhearted at best. I am here to infiltrate his Estate as a test. In short, she wants to knock him off of his high horse, and show him how vulnerable he really is."

She watched her lie take root in the girl, as her frown slowly smoothed and the only lines on her face were ones of distaste, distaste towards Jarol. "I see." She said, nodding. Only then did Thérèse feel a twinge of remorse at her lie. But she reminded herself that it was better than the alternative—silence the witness. "Well, if I let you through, will you promise to succeed?" That twist of the brow, that curve of the lips—it was a hot dislike that Thérèse knew all too well. For a moment, she wished that innocent girl had never felt it. "Of course."

Lucinia nodded and pulled a key ring out of her pocket. She knelt and unlocked the door. "After you." Thérèse hopped down into the cool murkiness of the cellar, followed by the inkeep's daughter. "There's just one more door." She fiddled with the key ring and unlocked a second door with a heavy click. "Make sure you teach that snob a lesson." She sighed. "Mum would have my hide for this."

Thérèse regarded her for a long moment. Her hair was dark, with a tinge of red. If it wasn't for those eyes, she would look like her mother did, in old portraits from when she was young. Truly a striking girl. "Your mum doesn't have to know." She laid a hand on her shoulder. In a few hours, in the morning, an alarm would be raised, and Lucinia would know just how much she had lied. "Practice that magic, learn how to use a sword, or a staff, and go after the world. Don't let anything stop you. You only have one life, and you never know what day will be your last."

The girl looked at her, slightly confused, before she nodded. "I'm going to lock the doors behind you."

"Good idea."

Lucinia smiled nervously. "Good luck." Thérèse stepped inside the smuggler's route, and the door behind her closed with a thud and a heavy click.

* * *

"Come out, assassin, and face me!" Yelled Jarol throughout the cavern. "Or are you one of those Brotherhood cowards!"

"Not yet, but I will be soon." She breathed, nestled in between a rock and the wall, waiting for the mage with the lantern to walk by. What would he rather happen? Did he want her to charge in and kill all of his guards along with him? No. This way he would die without needless bloodshed. He would be saving lives. She'd had to kill that guard in the wine cellar, but that had been an accident. Her side was still smarting from the bruise his sword had left her, even after she'd healed most of the wound.

Her opening appeared, and she slipped between the stalagmites and the wall of the cavern, coming to rest behind some crates, waiting for another guard to pass. Terenus had said that the Blade of Woe would come to her when she needed it, but she didn't really know what that meant.

Taking another chance, she darted behind a wooden fence that ran along the walkway. It would take her right behind Jarol. She'd been watching him make his rounds. He would return from the waterway, and walk behind some crates, speak with a guard, and then look out across the river. That's when she would strike. As she was thinking to herself, he did just as she predicted.

"Any sign of them?" He whispered hastily to the guard.

"No sir." She replied. "They haven't entered the cavern yet." Thérèse smiled softly.

"Good. Carry on." Jarol sighed and stood at the edge of the river, facing away from her.

She crept behind him on her toes, hand empty. Sithis, Night Mother, please…be true. She hoped they would hear her plea.

As if on cue, she felt the cold metal in her hand. As she'd done before, she covered her target's mouth and slit his throat without a sound. The rush of the river hid the splash of the body's entry.

Her contract had been completed.

No shouts, no spells or arrows. They had not seen her. The blade vanished from her palm, and she took to a silent run, towards the gate to the waterway. She jumped into the cold water, and it seeped into her clothes and into her hair, chilling her.

Thérèse ducked under the toothy jaws of the gate, and she was free. The sun greeted her warmly, and she swam to the shore.

Well, that was refreshing! All she'd need to do was dry off and make it back to Anvil.

As she lay on the warm sand and let the sun evaporate the beads of water on her skin, she felt truly and utterly at ease. It was just as she thought all those years ago. Murder did set a little part of you free.

* * *

The last thing she heard before she shut the door was the sharp cries of seagulls on ocean air. She smiled. The interior of the lighthouse looked much different with daylight streaming in through the windows. The shadow was banished, and now a man was standing before her, instead of a dark voice.

"We know that Quintus Jarol is dead. The Brotherhood has eyes everywhere. You have done well. The covenant is sealed, signed in blood. Welcome to the family, Sister." Even in the light, however, his voice still held a remnant of the shadow. She supposed it probably always would.

The body was still in the chair, stiff now with rigor mortis. She wanted to sit, but she didn't want to be rude, so she sat on the crate she'd occupied earlier.

"So that was all I had to do?" She inquired. Only now as she sat did she realize just how sore her feet really were.

"We have been watching you for a long time. Killing the noble simply sealed our covenant. Now you need to meet your Brothers and Sisters. I will send you to a Sanctuary. A safehouse of sorts. A home, as well as a source of additional contracts."

She raised a sculpted brow. So, this was the home she had been promised. She had to admit, she was excited. But beyond that, his words also puzzled her. "The Brotherhood has eyes in High Rock?"

He laughed patronizingly. "The Brotherhood has eyes everywhere, Initiate. None escape it's dark gaze, especially those with potential."

She held back a frown and simply sighed. "Where is this Sanctuary, then?" She was eager to get rest.

"Not far. It's the reason I summoned you to the Gold Coast. There is much work to accomplish here, and you will be a part of that." Something gold flickered in the palm of the hand that was clasped outwards, behind his back. That coin again. "Your new home lies in the north, hidden beneath Varen's Wall. Go there and attempt to open the Black Door."

She shook her head minutely, erasing the coin from her mind. "Attempt?" Did he know her ineptitude with lockpicks? She did have to burn through several of the locks at Jarol's estate, but—

"The Black Door will pose a question: 'What is the flavor of fear?' Reply, 'Sublime, my Brother,' and the Sanctuary shall be open to you. Once inside, seek out Astara. She has additional instructions for you."

"I see." She nodded.

"Just be happy it isn't a lock you have to pick, Initiate." For the first time since she'd talked to him, amusement was apparent in his voice.

Thérèse closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. When she opened them, he had turned to her, and the shadow of his face was marred by the laughter written just barely on his features. From the looks of it, it wasn't an expression he wore often. She sighed, but she couldn't hold back her smirk completely. To distract from her iniquities, she nodded to the dead woman. "What did she do?"

He observed the body dispassionately, all traces of mirth gone. "Just a little business I had to attend to. I do like to keep my dagger sharp, as it were." His chin tilted up and his eyes narrowed. "Her family had certain documents and presumed to make allegations that might have embarrassed the Brotherhood."

Thérèse snorted. "So the Brotherhood killed her to avoid embarrassment?"

His sharp gaze turned on her, chiding."The Brotherhood isn't that petty." After a moment of holding her eyes, he looked back down at the body. "But we do have certain obligations to uphold. I gave her the greatest gift of all - solace. Just as you gave the same gift to Lord Jarol. And there will be many more gifts to grant before your work is done." He raised a dark eyebrow, and it was clear that her presence here was spent.

Thérèse rose, dusting off her pants absently. She walked towards the door, as did he, trailing behind her. "And if I have questions for you later, where should I find you?"

He blinked those steel gray eyes and smirked just barely. "I sometimes frequent the chapel alcove in the Sanctuary. You may find me there." His chin lifted slightly, and he just…studied her for a long moment, eyes latching on to hers.

She had killed the man in the alley, and killed Jarol, all without letting herself be overcome with emotion. She was good at steeling herself, good at keeping her movements calm, her thoughts calm. But as he stared into her, and her into him, something in her was shaken, disjointed. Like the pop of a joint, it rattled out of place, leaving her feeling somewhat odd and ungrounded. She wondered absently if he'd heard it come loose.

He blinked, and smiled lazily. Finally, he turned away, back towards the fireplace. "Find the Sanctuary. Open the Black Door. Your Brothers and Sisters wait to greet you with open arms." A pause, filled with something tentative and visceral that made her hold her breath. "I look forward to watching your progress, Initiate." He turned halfway back to her, coin held between two fingers of an open hand, glinting, its face full against the light. "And once again, welcome to the family."


	3. Sublime, My Brother

_**A little boring as a chapter, but it was necessary to make introductions with her Brothers and Sisters. Hope you like it!**_

 _ **Also, thank you to those who reviewed me:)**_

"What is the flavor of fear?" Its whisper struck her as both visceral and soft, terrifying and immobile. Looking up at the skull carved into the stone door, she responded in kind.

"Sublime, my brother."

If the skull could move, it would have smiled. In fact, Thérèse thought she saw the barest glimmer of a smile in that toothy mouth. "Welcome home." Out of the stone, a doorknob appeared, as if it had always been there. She wasn't quite sure if it had emerged from the stone, or if it had been unmasked, but regardless, entry was now possible for her. Her smooth hand touched the icy cold stone and it opened, wafting the sent of parchment, musk, and wax out to her.

The shadow of the sanctuary fell over her as the door closed, and the heat of the sun vanished from her back and the crown of her head. It was a cool, refreshing shadow, and mist from the waterfall meters in front of her made the air all the more crisp. Already she felt the stress of travel drip from her muscles and pool at her feet. Knowing herself, she'd probably pick it up on the way out, but she didn't worry over that now. Smooth stone stairs snaked upwards, and she wondered which way she was supposed to go.

"Cimbar, is that you?" A Dunmer head poked out behind a rock, cowled and cloaked in black armor. When he saw her, his eyes narrowed. "Oh, for Sithis' sake, he's been on that contract for three days!" He stepped out behind the wall in full and crossed his arms in casual irritation. "And, uh, who are you exactly?"

Would the people here really treat her like family? She didn't even really know what that meant, to be honest. "Thérèse Crevier." She announced, stepping forward to hold out a hand. "The Speaker sent me here."

His eyes, slim and deadly, trailed up and down her form in a casual way. Eventually, he took her hand and shook it, and while his grip was stony and firm, he somehow made the gesture reluctant and lackadaisical. "Is that right? We have enough problems as it is without a new Initiate." He sighed. "Still, you might prove an asset, in time. Elam Drals, charmed. You'll want to talk to Astara. Just head up those stairs and take a left. Short woman, blonde hair, perpetual expression of irritation, you can't miss her. And when you're ready for your first contract, come by and see me." He raised an eyebrow and turned on a heel, re-entering the room he'd come out of. Well, that wasn't so bad. He seemed like he might be the amiable type, in time. Still, she sighed. Patience, she could do, if only she steeled herself for it's cold cowl.

There was little else for her to do besides follow Drals' directions, so she climbed the steps and entered the halls. Little candles clustered in families on steps and in corners, granting an eerie and warm light to the area.

She saw what Drals meant when she caught sight of the woman. She was standing in front of a bench, arms crossed, mouth slanted in a hard scowl. Her light blonde hair was cut at a harsh angle at her jaw, and a thin scar traced itself over her left cheek. You didn't notice her diminutive size, though, as much as you might expect to. In her heavy armor and with her shoulders thrown back with authority, you could feel the power radiating from her skin.

When she saw her, she raised her head and unfolded her arms. Somehow this made her look even more intimidating. "You must be the new Initiate. The Speaker sent word you were on your way." She didn't offer her hand, just a cold, calculating gaze. "I'm the Matron of this Sanctuary. Obey me without question and I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

Thérèse knew earned power when she saw it, and this woman demanded respect. If someone else had addressed her this way, she'd be disheartened. But from this woman, she expected it, received it. She bowed her head slightly. "Of course, Matron."

She nodded, satisfied. From under her arm she pulled a small, dark package. "This is for you. Shrouded Armor. The uniform of the Dark Brotherhood. You're one of the family now, so you might as well look the part." One golden brow raised sharply. "I expect great things Initiate. Go, explore the Sanctuary, meet the others. I believe Green-Venom-Tongue, Kor, Hildegarde, Mirabelle, and Tanek are available. When you're ready for a contract, talk to Elam Drals." With her instructions expended, the Matron turned and walked away, up some stairs, and was gone.

Thérèse turned and surveyed the room she was in. Four paths led out of the room, one which she already knew led back to the antechamber. She picked one of the others at random and walked up some stairs.

The room that appeared had many beds and dividers; quarters. She spotted an Argonian across the way. Green-Venom-Tongue, perhaps? If this place truly was a family, she should get to know the people. She approached him. "I heard we had a new Initiate on the premises." He murmured, turning slowly, head buried in a very large tome. When he looked up, she could see that one of his eyes was a milky white. "I was just checking my notes and realized that details concerning you are sorely lacking." Those still, reptilian eyes studied her with practiced precision. "We'll need to rectify that before too long."

Despite the forbidding of those words, she smiled. So he was a note taker, and a record maker. He might be very useful for information regarding contracts. "Whatever you wish to know about me, you may ask it, though I cannot gurantee an answer for everything." Her slim hand extended towards him. "You must be Green-Venom-Tongue."

His quill was carefully set unto the spine of his open book to free up one of his hands, which he then used to shake hers. She'd never actually felt the skin of an Argonian before. You didn't see many in High Rock. It was cold, but surprisingly smooth, save for the little edges of his scales. "Did the Matron tell you to introduce yourself?" He asked, cocking his head to the side. "Interesting. I wonder what she's planning this time. Well, I'm certain everything will become clear eventually. Even you, I suppose." He gestured to a wooden chair against the wall. "May I ask a few questions now?"

Her lip quirked with amusement and she nodded. "I don't see why not." She sat down in the chair, and the Argonian took a seat on the edge of his bed.

"Very good." The quill feverishly danced as something was scribbled down in his book. "What is your name, then?"

"Thérèse Crevier."

"Can you spell that?" She did. "Hmmm. And is that your real name?"

A pause. "No, it isn't."

"Interesting. I don't suppose you want to tell me what your real name is?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Not at the current moment, no."

He nodded. "I see. Well then, why did you change your name?"

She smoothed her hands over the folded armor in her lap. Why had she taken a new name? She frowned. "I suppose, to escape the law." The words didn't taste right on her lips. To escape the law? She had been free to leave the Anvil docks when she had. "No, that's not right." Her mahogany curls rustled behind her ears as her head shook. "I think it was more to distance myself from my family." The Rienne family name, a name of nobility and poise. Not the name of a murderer.

The quill scratched on the parchment dully, then rose from the page, it's feathered neck tapping a scaled chin. "What is your worst fear?"

"Venom, stop pestering the poor woman!" A lean, curved figure slid onto the bed, and the face of a young, beatiful woman appeared from raven-black hair. Her red lips curled seductively. "You must be the new initiate." Hooded blue eyes raked across her form. "Certainly cuter than the last one, isn't she, Venom?"

The Argonian merely rose, noting yet another thing in his massive bound journal. "I have no schema for attractiveness in humans, Mirabelle."

With room freed on the bed, Mirabelle stretched out over it's length like a cat. "Then take my word for it, Argonian."

Venom-Tongue raised a scaled brow. "I take no one's word on anything."

The seductress huffed and rolled her eyes. "Don't mind him, Initiate. Allow me to introduce myself. Mirabelle Motierre. And you are?"

Motierre? The young daughter of the Motierre line? By the gods, she'd attended this girl's consecration in the temple! Forced by her parents of course, and shoved in too-tight, stuffy clothing.

What was it the priest had said? "The Eight recognize this child in the eyes of her parents, and in the eyes of Dibella"? Something along those lines. Well, Dibella certainly had blessed this young woman.

"She calls herself 'Thérèse Crevier,' but that is not her real name." Supplied Venom-Tongue, who was paging through a journal he'd retrieved from the shelf.

Mirabelle laughed sweetly. "How alluring!" The brunt of her honeyed stare fell on Thérèse, and she grinned. "We'll find out eventually, you know."

Thérèse smiled and leaned back in her chair. "I expect you to. Motierre, hmm? Why would such a noble young woman turn to a life of murder?"

She rolled her eyes and sank into the bed. "I was bored, of course. People waited on me hand and foot, like a fragile little flower." Even the shrug of her shoulders was graceful. "So one day, I strangled my handmaiden with a golden chain. And now, I'm a part of the family." She rolled onto her side to look at the Initiate, eyebrow raising. "What about you? How does such a poised lady get the reputation of a murderer?"

At the personal line of questioning, a small bar of tension began to appear in her shoulders that she covered up instinctively. She would've thought the action was successful had she not heard the Argonian mutter something behind her, followed by a few sharp quill-scratches. "I killed my parents, for much the same reason. A life of luxury seems to guarantee that you're at the back of your parents minds."

"How vicious!" She laughed. "But it's a little late to be knocking off your parents, isn't it?"

Thérèse sighed and smiled a bit. Mirabelle was spunky, wasn't she? "I killed them years ago. I only returned to the Gold Coast in the last few days."

Mirabelle froze, eyes bright with excitement. "By Sithis, you're Monet Rienne, aren't you?" She pushed herself up with one hand. "Aren't you? Everyone in Anvil's heard the story of Crazy Monet, the daughter who slaughtered her parents while they slept!"

She frowned, not knowing whether to be flattered or irritated. She supposed she was a little of both. Her eyes flicked over to Venom-Tongue to see that he was staring at her, hand paused over his journal, ready to write down whatever she spoke next.

She sighed, letting the tension ebb away. "Yes, I'm Monet Rienne." Mirabelle clapped just as Venom-Tongue scribbled hastily in his memoir.

"That's fantastic! I've always wanted to meet you, you know. You're back home now, why ever go by that fake name of yours?"

Well….why ever? "I suppose I'm just used to it."

Mirabelle shrugged. "I'll call you whatever you want, but if I were you, I'd wear my fame around my shoulders. After all, you're an assassin now, aren't you?" Her lips curled again into that perfect, beautiful smile. "You should say hello to the others. Kor is in the mess hall with Hildegarde, last I heard. It's just across the way, past Astara's office."

"Is that bed taken?" Thérèse asked, pointing to the one in the corner.

Mirabelle wrinkled her nose. "No, it was someone else's, but they aren't around anymore. Take it if you want."

She wondered idly what had happened to them, but she guessed they'd been caught by a contract gone bad. She slung her bag off of her shoulders and set it in the chest at the end of the bed. She frowned. "There's no lock."

"Oh, we're not allowed to steal from fellow members. That's against the Five Tenents." Offered Mirabelle.

Thérèse looked at Venom-Tongue, and he regarded her with eerily still eyes. "No one breaks the Five Tenents." The way his voice dripped with ice almost made her shiver. "I suggest you find a copy, and read it."

As she stepped into the mess hall, she heard a heavily accented Nord voice drift towards her. "It's okay, Hildegarde, just a new smell. It's probably just a new brother or sister, come to say hello!"

Thérèse squinted and stepped out of the shadows to make out the bear of a man that stood before some bars. Behind those bars was a werewolf. As she approached—with caution—the wolf hurried away from the bars and into a corner, where it sat, watching her.

Kor turned, raising a hand to scratch the back of his neck. "Don't mind her, she's just skittish around people she doesn't know." Then, after his apology, his face broke into a huge grin. "But it is so good to see you, New-Sister!" And he stepped forward and enveloped her into a crushing hug. If she could have breathed, she would have laughed at the bewilderment of it all. He smelled of mead and sweat, as any Nord should. Not a bad smell—a warm one. When he pulled away, she took in a much needed breath and laughed, grinning. She'd forgotten how happiness can spread. By the Eight, how long had it been since she'd seen someone so cheerful? The fact that she couldn't remember worried her. "Welcome, welcome. You need anything at all, anything, you come to me, yes?"

Thérèse nodded. "Of course. You must be Kor?"

He smiled and nodded. "That's me! And what should I call you?"

She thought about what Mirabelle said, but she didn't feel like Monet, she didn't know if she ever would again. "Thérèse Crevier."

"Oof, a fancy Breton name. I hope I can remember! It's important to get to know everyone. You're part of the family now, and family helps each other. It's what we do." If anyone else in the Sanctuary was unwelcoming, this Nord would make up for it tenfold. Her eyes drifted past him and into the cage, where the werewolf was still sitting in the corner.

"May I ask why you have a werewolf in that cage?" She tried to inquire politely.

"Oh, that's not a werewolf." He paused, looking confused. "Well, I guest it is. Bit it's also little Hildegarde. She's really sweet, but you'll need to say hello later. She still doesn't have the hang of controlling her transformations."

Thérèse frowned, peering in between the bars. "It sounds like she has an interesting story."

Kor followed her gaze and sighed. "Hildegarde is like the little sister I never had, but her true family was awful. They drank the blood of were-beasts!"

The sorceress gawked, eyes wide. "They drank blood?" She asked, incredulous. Why in Sheogorath's name would they do that?

"It's a dangerous practice, but not entirely unheard of in Nord lands." His voice lowered. "They even forced their children to participate."

She clenched her jaw. Cultural customs lost their validity when they persecuted the innocent. "And that's how she was turned."

He shrugged. "We assume so. But as to why she can't control her transformations, that remains a mystery. She lost control and hurt a member of her tribe, so they cursed her and she had to run away. That's when I found her. She was confused, alone, and nearly mad."

Thérèse snorted. "It was their fault she turned in the first place." Shaking her head, she looked back at Kor, at the long scar along his cheek. "Did she give you that?"

He laughed, shrugging it off. "Yes, before I convinced her to trust me. I'm a skilled hunter, taming animals is just second nature to me. It took time, but she came around."

"Who are you talking the ear off now, Kor?" Came an amiable male voice from behind. "Is that a new Initiate I see?"

"Hey!" Exclaimed Kor, jovial. "That's Tanek."

She turned to him and smiled. "Hello Tanek, I'm—"

He held up two hands in front of him. "No no, don't tell me your name." He hopped over the bar and fished around for something, and his hands reappeared with a bottle. "It's not like you'll be around here long. I'll just call you New-blade. Yes, New-blade, so much better."

"Don't mind him." Put in Kor. "He's just worried about the disappearances."

"The disappearances?" She frowned.

"We've lost an Initiate and a fully trained assassin recently. Mirabelle's in denial, but I know what's happening." He paused, for dramatic effect. "Someone's hunting the Brotherhood. And sorry to say it, New-blade, but you make a tempting target."

Kor scoffed. "He's just trying to scare you, Initiate."

Tanek raised a brow and took a swig from his mug. "Really, Kor? You're a hunter. Don't you see the signs? And Durisa was no easy prey, you know that."

Thérèse turned to Kor, eyebrow cocked. "Was Durisa another assassin?"

He nodded, big blue eyes unable to hide his sadness. "Yeah, a pretty wood elf. She was better than most of us."

"And she ended up in an Anvil alley with her throat slit ear to ear." Tanek pointed out, giving Thérèse a hard stare. "Stay sharp, New-blade. We aren't alone in the shadows anymore." He drained his mug and set it down with a hard _thunk_ on the counter. "And I'm not going to clean you up if you end up face down in your own blood."

He started to saunter away, and Kor called after him. "Astara will have your head if you leave empty mugs lying around again, Tanek."

The Redgaurd turned and shrugged. "Take care of it for me, will you, New-blade?"

Thérèse had to admire his brashness, even if it was infuriating. She snapped her fingers and sent a spark after him, and as he entered the hallway, she heard a muffled 'Ow!' "Who was the Initiate?" She asked, picking up the mug and rinsing it out in the sink.

"A boy named Van. And he really was a boy. Hardly any blood on his blade." Kor clenched a large fist. "Who would go around hunting the Brotherhood? It's insane!"

There were probably plenty of people who would want revenge on the Brotherhood, for dead loved ones or some such. But even if someone wanted revenge, she doubted they could ever do much damage to such a secretive organization. "Well, I'll make sure to watch my back on my next contract. Speaking of which, I should talk to Elam."

Kor laughed. "But you're not even settled in! How eager you are!"

Maybe she was eager. Maybe she just felt idle. Or maybe…she just wanted to prove herself. "Maybe I am eager. I'll see you when I get back, Kor." She stepped forward towards the gate and smiled. "And you too, Hildegarde." The wolf sniffed.

She traced her way back to the room she'd seen Drals in before. She'd wanted to rest when she got here, but now all she wanted to do was take a contract. Her first Brotherhood contract. She didn't know whether to be concerned about the extent of her emotions, or happy that she was finally motivated to do something.

She stepped into the large, seemingly ceilingless room, and saw Drals lounging in a wooden chair. He didn't look up from his book as she entered. "Ah, if it isn't our newest murder victim. What can I do for you, Initiate?"

Her eyebrow twitched at his words and his dry tone. "Astara told me you could give me my first contract."

He looked up, blood-red eyes narrow and lethal. "Did she now? Well, now that you're here, we might as well discuss your training."

"My training?" She questioned. Astara hadn't mentioned training.

He breathed in sharply and closed his eyes momentarily in annoyance. "Don't. Repeat what I say. It annoys me." He frowned and looked to the side. "Now where was I? Oh yes, your training. Complete a contract, receive a reward. Prove yourself, and more significant contracts will be made available to you. It's simple really." Thérèse nodded in affirmation. He might have smiled under that cowl, by the way his cheeks moved, but she couldn't tell. But by the looks of his eyes, it hadn't been a genuine smile, if it had been one at all. "The Speaker tells me you're from High Rock, Glenumbra specifically." He snorted. "I don't expect you to last a week, but as long as you're still here….Ready for your first contract, Initiate?"

Her heart beat faster, and she held back a smile. All she did was nod delicately. "I'm ready."

He chuckled. "So serious. Well, typically you'll consult the ledger, 'Marked for Death,' but I've handpicked something special for your first job." This time he did smile, and it certainly wasn't a friendly one. "There's an aid in Daggerfall Castle that needs to be silenced. He's been suspected of stealing. His name is Grendel Clarefont."

Daggerfall Castle. She had to kill someone in a castle full of guards? Curse this Dunmer's rotten sense of humor….

She bit back her sigh and nodded. "Anything else?"

He laughed a low, dry laugh. "You do well to bite your tongue like that, Initiate. Since you asked, I do encourage you to practice with the Blade of Woe, but as long as the target dies, it doesn't really matter, does it?" He waved a hand at her. "Well go on then. I'm not much to look at, and neither is this room. If you want to surprise me, come back alive."

She allowed herself a smile. "How else would I come back?"

He shrugged. "I dunno with you Bretons, half of High Rock seems to be undead right now." That got an amused snort out of her. "Ah, so there is a sense of humor in there somewhere. We'll have to work on that, but that does depend on whether or not you come back, doesn't it?"


	4. Contract: Glenumbra

_**A/N: Hello, everyone! Many thanks to my anonymous fans who reviewed, it makes me very happy! This chapter is an in-depth, realistic view of a contract, and it has many characters that you might recognize if you're a Covenant fan. Enjoy!**_

Thérèse dug around her bag for the letter. A few weeks ago, King Casimir had sent her an invitation to a party he was throwing, to celebrate the defeat of Angof. She knew it was close to the date, or even past it, but she was hoping that she still had time to make it. By the Eight, why hadn't she taken time to thoroughly read the letter when she got it? Probably because she hadn't intended to go.

Her fingers touched paper, and she finally fished it out.

 _Miss Crevier,_

 _I, King Casimir, formally invite you to the banquet that will take place at Daggerfall Castle on the twenty-third day of Last Seed, in celebration of your defeat of Angof the Gravesinger._

 _It would be a great honor if the hero who saved my life, and indeed saved all of our lives, would attend._

 _With humble gratitude,_

 _King Casimir_

The sorceress sighed and pressed her lips together. She had never liked the way people doted on her for the things she had done to help them. She was just doing what the Prophet had told her to do—fight Mannimarco. Angof had worked for Mannimarco.

But it seemed that fate was forcing her hand. She still had a week before the twenty-third came around, and that was just enough time to take a boat to Daggerfall, and prepare. With hundreds of other party guests, suspicion was sure to be thrown around.

But, she would need a dress. "Mirabelle?"

The assassin rolled over from where she was fanning herself on her bed. "Yes, darling?"

Thérèse had to smile at her charm. "Who lives in my old manor house?"

She shrugged. "No one. The fool that condemned Anvil to the Pirate Queen, Benirus or something like that, bought the property, but no one's ever moved in." Her lips curled. "They believe it's haunted." She laughed. "As far as I know, it's been undisturbed since your parents were carried out on stretchers."

* * *

The deep porch stared back at her, pillars still as white as they were sixteen years ago. She sighed and made her way up the twisted steps. She didn't even bother with the door, just wrenched one of the side windows open with a thin knife.

Musk and rotting wood assaulted her, and she wrinkled her nose. Oh, well, she'd get used to it.

It was so strange, being back here. Everything was a darker, mustier version of the day she had left. Of course, it helped that she'd come here at night.

She reached out and touched a bit of peeling paint, and it chipped right off.

It was the parlor she was in. The heavy oaken harpsichord was bowing under its own rotten weight. She'd learned how to play on this thing. In fact, it was the only thing her mother had ever done with her.

The tutor had taught her how to read, and to write. The lady's maid had taught her manners and how to sit, talk, and eat. The stableboy had taught her how to ride a horse.

Mother had only taught her how to play a harpsichord.

It was a useless skill, really. Even the manners of a rich lady were things she used every once and awhile, for things like this Banquet she would be attending. She'd only ever seen harpsichords in castles or large estates, and they weren't very popular in High Rock.

Her feet moved her towards it, hollow sounds on empty stone. She wasn't sure what possessed her, but she reached out a finger, and brushed a key.

Oh it was a sickly, out of tune cry, but it made her smile all the same.

She'd planned to use one of her mother's dresses. After all, she was almost a replica of her, now that she was grown. A little more muscle, and calloused hands, but other than that…a replica.

A mage had once come, and placed wards on their closets to keep out moths and other bugs. Her father had insisted it was a gimmick, but her mother hadn't cared. Why should she have? She had the gold. If her father had been right, she'd just have to buy a dress in High Rock. She clenched her jaw. First time for everything.

She made her way up the stairs, glad that they were solid and not rotten wood. It was as if her fifteen year old self was walking up with her, blade in hand. She could remember it so vividly, it might as well be happening as she lived and breathed, sixteen years later.

When they entered her parents' bedroom, Thérèse went to the dresser, while Monet crept towards the bed. Hoping against all hopes, she cracked open the wooden closet. She smiled. They were still intact!

As she fingered through the many dresses, she absently heard the sharp slice of flesh, and the gurgles of Gaston Rienne as he woke to death.

Hmm, mother always did have such nice clothes, didn't she? Many of the dresses were a deep green, to compliment her slightly red, dark hair. Thérèse picked one such dress, with gold embroidery and a wide neckline.

Her mother rustled at the disturbance next to her. "Monet?" Came her rich, refined voice. It was tinged with confusion, and fear. "But you were—" She was interrupted by a sharp blade, and her wet gasps joined her husband's.

"What? Gone? Banished? Disowned? What am I mother? What am I if I'm not your daughter?" Monet sobbed, teeth bared against her own emotion. She stepped back and answered her own question. "A murderer."

Thérèse pulled down the green dress. When she turned towards the mirror to look at it, the bed was empty.

* * *

"That is a stunning dress!" Gabrielle exclaimed. "I wish I had clothes like that. I just hope my hair's on straight." The wizard laughed nervously and looked around.

"What she means, Thérèse, is that your dress certainly brings out your eyes." Whispered Darien from her left. "We still haven't had our drink at the tavern. Perhaps we could tonight." He winked.

"That's enough from you, Gautier. Some of us want to enjoy our meal." Sir Lanis gave the younger man a hard stare.

Darien sighed. "Some people just don't appreciate me." Gabrielle laughed.

Thérèse cut a small piece from her steak and took a bite, careful to use the outside utensils first. There were plenty of nobles here and a part of her wanted to look at the shock on their face when she observed all of their ridiculous customs.

"I was actually surprised you came, with all the business up in Koeglan Village. I heard what happened there." Interjected Lanis.

"I bet our Thérèse was hero again." Added Gabrielle. She meant well, but Thérèse was getting tired of smiling for show.

"I was surprised I came, too, to be perfectly honest. But I was in the area." The lie fell off of her painted lips easily.

"Well, I for one, am glad." Spoke Duke Sebastian suddenly. He hadn't said much to her during the dinner, and his wife sat beside him, pale and emotionless. She wasn't getting over the tragedy of Aldcroft quite as easily as her husband. "You have done so much for Glenumbra, you deserve a little fun."

Thérèse smiled. Fun was not the word she'd use. She reached for the wine glass and almost held the bowl of the cup, not the stem. She was so used to drinking red wine, not this white, bitter tonic.

 _Ding ding ding!_ It was the sound of a knife hitting glass. King Casimir rose. Something inside Thérèse's chest died a little. He was going to make a speech, and he was going to mention her, wasn't he? By the Eight, it would be good to shed some blood after this.

"Everyone, may I have your attention!" His voice boomed throughout the hall. He waited for heads to turn, and the sound of utensils hitting plates rattled and then died off. "As you know, we are gathered here to celebrate the end of Angof's hold over Glenumbra. Lion Guard soldiers are removing the remaining undead from our land, and the Mages Guild, under the watchful eye of Wizard Benele," at this, Gabrielle flushed and ducked her head, "are removing the toxic vines that Angof grew throughout our hold." The crowd clapped to fill his pause, and Thérèse inwardly winced at what was coming next. He turned to look at her. "None of this would be possible without our hero, the one who saved my life, and the lives of those in Aldcroft, and those who would have died under Angof's hand."

"They way he tells it, we might as well not have been there at all." Darien muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. She turned to give him an amused look when she caught sight of the Duke's wife. She was giving her such a cold, hateful stare, Thérèse had to freeze to catch her breath. _The lives of those in Aldcroft…_ but she had not saved everyone, and she had come too late for most.

"So I invite you all to applaud our savior, Thérèse Crevier!" The King made a gesture for her to rise, and she did so, holding her folded napkin in one hand. The whole time, she could feel the cold glare of the Duchess.

The room erupted into applause, and Thérèse could feel her cheeks redden. _Her_ cheeks, which were always impassive ivory. Darien stood as he clapped, eyes glinting devilishly. Innocently, Gabrielle followed, and soon the whole room was giving her a standing ovation.

When was it going to end? Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and she could feel the heat spreading more and more over her face. In that moment, she wished Darien had been her contract.

After what seemed like an eternity, they sat, and their plates were whisked away to be replaced by dessert.

Darien said something she didn't quite hear, and she nodded and smiled, taking a sip of the wine.

* * *

The guests were clearing out in droves, the women receiving their furs and coats with huffs and grumbles at the apparent laziness of the help.

"Thank you, once again, for coming to my banquet." The King fixed her with a big smile. "And if you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to ask."

The words reminded her of what Kor had said, but they couldn't be more different. The King said those words with silk and pomp. It was a falsity, and it was confirmed to her then that he'd invited her for publicity, more than anything else. If she had gone with the sole intention of enjoying herself, she would have felt used. As it stood, however, she had a job to do.

She merely nodded and gave a forced smile. "Of course. Goodnight, my King." She had to act quickly, while Darien was still stuck talking to his father, and the guards were still preoccupied with the King.

She entered the stream of leaving patrons, eyes scanning for anyone cut off from the group. When she saw a lone servant carry a barrel into the larder, she slipped away and followed him.

Soon they were down a few flights of stairs, and completely alone.

If anyone saw her do this, Thérèse Crevier would be a name that was ruined. She would jeopardize everything that the Prophet was working towards.

"Excuse me, but I'm looking for a friend of mine." The guard turned and regarded her.

"Oh, the hero that saved King Casimir!" He smiled. "Who would that be?"

She forced a glimmering smile back. "Grendel Clarefont."

He frowned. "That fool? He was going on about the Banquet and how 'unfair' it all was. Anyway, he was going up to the library to dust some shelves."

"Thank you, sir." She said politely, and turned to go up the stairs.

"You're welcome, miss." The guard turned back to his duties, and that's when she struck from behind, the Blade of Woe suddenly in her hand. He couldn't cry for the slit in his throat, and he fell to his knees, then to the floor.

Thérèse let out a shuddering sigh and slipped back up the stairs, careful to climb up the second flight when there was no one in the doorway to see her.

The library was upstairs, if she remembered correctly. She was glad that this dress was so dark, but it was difficult to move in. This needed to go quickly. She peered in one room after another, glad that the servants were busy downstairs. But, they wouldn't be for long.

Finally she entered a room filled with books, and there was only one man in it. But she had to be sure. "Hello. If you're Grendel Clarefont, um, the Captain wanted to speak to you." Dammit, she'd forgotten the Captain's name again…didn't it start with an A?

He turned and scratched his head. "Okay? Whatever he thinks I did this time, he's wrong." He narrowed his eyes and brushed past her. "Had to send a wench up to do the job too, did he?"

She let out a pleased sigh at the feeling of cold metal in her hand again. "No, but Sithis did." She threw it. It lodged itself straight in his back, and he fell over, dead.

Now for the tricky part. She would most likely be seen if she went back down the stairway. It was too risky, she couldn't do it. She sighed and looked out of the window.

She'd practiced the spell before, of course. Once or twice.

She shook the doubts out of her head. She was a good mage, she would be fine. She found the window that faced the west, towards the forest, placed one heeled foot on the sill, and jumped.

The ground was fast approaching, and she held out a hand towards it. A purple disc covered the stone, and suddenly, she was hovering inches above the ground. Breathing out in relief, she released the spell and tumbled the short distance to the ground. She really never wanted to do that again.

Dusting off her dress, she went the long way back around to the inn, to make sure to avoid the routes to the castle.

When she was back in her room, she changed out of the dress and into a comfortable robe. What should she do with it? She could keep it, but why would she need it again? Hmm, maybe Mirabelle would want it.

Thérèse shrugged to herself and packed it away into a linen bag before curling up in bed. Tomorrow she would be on her way back to the Gold Coast.

She smiled. Her first contract, and it had gone well.

* * *

She stepped up to him and smiled demurely. "I'm back, and I don't smell of undeath."

He raised a brow and smiled, though this time it was more friendly. "I'd let me be the judge of that, Initiate." He leaned back in his chair and looked her up and down. "I admit, I didn't expect you to come back in one piece, not out of the lion's den." He took out a coinpurse and counted out what she'd made. "Don't get too full of your accomplishments just yet." He spilled a good bit of gold into her hand. "Come back when you're ready for more. If the Speaker or the Matron give an order, though, that takes priority." He chuckled. "I don't mean to be punny, but _speaking_ of which, Astara told me to send you her way, should you come back."

Thérèse just shook her head at his sorry joke and turned to leave. Well, it was a good sign that she was still alive, wasn't it?"


	5. A Lesson in Silence

_**A/N: Now for the real story to begin, mwahahaha! Honestly, this is my favourite chapter so far, I hope you guys like it too!**_

The Matron's angry voice carried loudly down the corridors. "Once again the pious _idiots_ of Kvatch dare to provoke the anger of the Dark Brotherhood. Such an insult cannot be allowed to stand unchallenged!"

Thérèse looked from Astara to those she was addressing as she walked into the main hall. Kor was there, along with a younger girl. She had blonde hair, which was partly pulled back, and a pink flower stuck out behind one ear. "What's going on in Kvatch?" Thérèse asked. Astra turned towards her.

The Matron's eyes flashed. "As if the Grand Sermonizer didn't have enough vices to rage about, now she's preaching against the Brotherhood. She says we are weak, powerless. A toothless dragon that inspires ridicule instead of fear." One fist slammed down hard on an open palm. "These lies must be silenced—permanently."

Thérèse looked to Kor, who simply gave her a grim look—the grimmest look she'd seen on his face so far. Some part of her—a dark part of her—blossomed forth, and that smooth, cold hatred she always carried unfurled its petals. "I can go to Kvatch."

The Matron took a calming breath, then nodded. "Be wary. The Order of the Hour has increased its presence in Kvatch. Avoid the warrior-priests if you can. Meet up with Tanek and silence the priests that speak against us, including the Grand Sermonizer. That will put the fear of Sithis in them."

Silencing priests would be like sipping sweet wine, but she couldn't let herself get intoxicated with it. Thérèse nodded and turned to go, but as soon as she turned in the corridor, she heard footsteps pounding behind her. "Hey, Initiate!" Kor bounded up beside her. "I have a contract near Kvatch. Once I'm finished, I'll head your way and lend any help I can."

"Are you sure that's wise, Kor?" The young girl spoke, voice thickly accented.

Kor turned and smiled at her. "Of course, Hildegarde. We'll all look after each other."

Hildegarde smiled, but she still looked worried.

"Hello." Smiled Thérèse. "I didn't get to meet you earlier. I'm Thérèse." She held out a hand.

Hildegarde looked at her hand for a moment, before taking it. Though the girl slouched slightly, and looked diminutive, her grip was very firm. "Hello, it's good to meet you, New-sister." She returned her hand to her side and gripped her arm self consciously.

Thérèse turned to Kor. "Any idea why the Grand Sermonizer is doing this?"

He shrugged. "Beats me. She's always going on about something people seem to be doing wrong, anyways. She's right under the Primate in terms of authority. Other than that, I don't really know how the temple works."

Thérèse huffed softly. "I know more than I'd like to about how the followers of Akatosh do their duties." She caught the two exchange glances and she waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, I'll see you in the field, Kor. It was nice to meet you, Hildegarde." She waved at them and turned, hurrying down the corridor.

She'd come to the Gold Coast, and murder followed. Now she was getting tangled up with Akatosh again. It was like history was repeating itself. She frowned and clenched her jaw. Well, at least she was going to get to kill some of those robed hypocrites.

* * *

Three hours later, and with calves that ached with crouching, Thérèse hung outside the door of the Grand Sermonizer's estate.

"Okay, we just need to unlock that door, and head inside." Whispered Tanek from behind her. "Go on, Initiate."

"Uh…" Thérèse blinked and turned around to face him. "I actually…I can't pick locks."

He gave her an incredulous look and placed a paw of a hand on her shoulder. "You mean to tell me that you are an assassin that can't pick locks?" She slowly nodded. Tanek looked for a moment like he'd like to scream. "Okay, we have to fix that." He moved to sneak around her, then paused and turned back around. "How the hell did you kill that Lord then?"

She shrugged and smiled. "Lots of fire and melting, mostly."

He covered his face with his hands. "Sithis preserve us. Well, keep a lookout then." He crept to the door and pulled out a pick, fiddling with the lock for a moment. When it snapped open, he gestured for her to follow.

The foyer of the estate house was grand and…empty. "Huh. No Order of the Hour?" He shook his head. "Come on." They ran up the stairs, Tanek headfirst while Thérèse glanced around to make sure there wasn't anyone else. When she followed him into the next room, she saw that he was crouching. He had a finger on his lips, and he waved her over.

She fell into a crouch next to him and looked down into a…well, it was a torture chamber. Her face twisted in surprise. In her time with the priestesses in the Cathedral, she had known how cruel religion could be. She saw the cold hearts of those who were there only there to fuel their jealous desires. But this? This was a new level of cruelty. A body was held to the table with knives on every limb, and in it's stomach was a long, jagged sword.

"That's Cimbar." Whispered Tanek into her ear. "And that's the Grand Sermonizer. But who is the third person?"

A woman stood in Black Armor beside the Sermonizer. That name…. _Cimbar, is that you?_ Elam had mistaken her for him when she first arrived in the Sanctuary. _He's been out on that contract for three days._

"It's a shame he expired before the location of their Sanctuary could be extracted." Said the Sermonizer, voice hard and cruel.

Thérèse froze. No, she was going crazy. It wasn't the same voice, it couldn't be. She pressed her eyes closed. Sheogorath preserve her.

 _If you hadn't paraded yourself around like a slut, the man never would have touched you._

It simply couldn't be. Never before had things fallen into place in her life—she'd tried to make it happen. But now, things were falling into place _against_ her. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe this wasn't who she thought it was.

"They're gone, come on New-blade." Cold air replaced where Tanek used to be and Thérèse breathed sharply. She unfolded stiff fingers from the metal grating she didn't even know she had grasped. _Night mother, please be with me._ And somehow, she rose on shaky legs, and followed Tanek down the steps.

The scene was even more gruesome up close. Cimbar's bones had been broken, and as a result, many of his limbs and extremities were twisted in a way that was hard to look at. Dried blood covered his feet and hands where the daggers had been thrust in, and the wound in his stomach made even her queasy. All of this pain, and he never broke. Of course he hadn't. He'd been protecting his family.

Tanek voiced her thoughts. "He never told them where the Sanctuary was." He shook his head and grabbed one of the knives, pulling it away from the body. Suddenly, he stumbled, and a hand went up to his head. "I—I feel weak. What—is this?"

Thérèse stepped forward, but he held out a hand. "No, don't touch me, or the body!" He yelled in pain. White hot chains appeared on Cimbar's body and transferred to Tanek. "So, so weak…New-blade…" He fell to the ground, golden light swirling around him, trapping him.

What on earth?

A cold laugh came from the door. "So Akatosh has answered my prayer, and delivered me another live Brotherhood rat to play with!"

This time, there was no doubt. Thérèse turned.

She was wearing silver armor, and there was another guard with her, but any facts beyond that were lost to Thérèse as she stood, heart pounding, electricity in her hands. All facts beyond the cruel glint in that woman's amber eyes.

The Grand Sermonizer looked surprised for a second. Then, she laughed. "Kill that murderous whore." The guard lept at her, and she dodged—nay, fell away from him. Desperately she summoned a clannfear, and it's shrill cry was music to her ears as it stepped out of Oblivion and started ripping at the soldier's flesh. He was distracted, and she threw up a hand in the air and brought down a thick bolt of lightning. He staggered. She left the daedra to do the rest.

The Grand Sermonizer was walking towards Tanek, blade in hand. "Don't touch him!" Thérèse hissed, blasting a wave of electricity her way. She brought up a golden shield, and it didn't even seem to harm her.

"Or what, you'll murder me?" She bared her disgusting, perfectly white teeth. "I should have known when I met you. I should've stuck a sword in you the first time I saw you, and saved your babe from a life of living with _your_ blood in her veins."

So much was unclear in those next few moments. She remembered moving, moving towards the Sermonizer. Her hands crackled with power, but her anger made her blind. The Sermonizer moved like liquid, hitting her side with brutal strength. Thérèse stumbled, pushed up against the wall by white hot magicka.

The Grand Sermonizer grinned. "I'm so glad _I_ have the honor of killing you."

There was a mighty roar, and the Sermonizer's eyes widened. She narrowly sidestepped a thick, ginormous greatsword. She backed away, and after a flash of light, she was gone. The doors to the next room shuddered as something invisible opened and closed them.

And then…Kor was there, by her side, pulling her up.

"Thérèse…" He breathed. "What was that?"

The mage shook her head, empty of words. "T-Tanek." She pushed out, and pointed to him. She wouldn't cry, couldn't cry. She was calm, she was stoic. She wasn't going to blubber like a child.

Kor nodded. "I'll get him back to the Sanctuary. But…are you sure you want to take the Grand Sermonizer on your own?" He frowned. "You don't look—"

"Kor." She said, voice hard. "I can do this. I have to do this." She shook her head to try to set things straight in her mind. "Tanek needs help. Let me take care of the Sermonizer."

Her regarded her grimly for a long moment, then enveloped her in a huge, nordic hug.

It was just what Thérèse needed. Something warm, something grounding. When he let her go, she smiled shakily. "I'll be coming home." She stepped away, but he grabbed her arm as she went.

"You promise?"

She looked into those big Nord eyes, and she didn't know how she could say anything other than, "Yes."

She took the secret passage down into the rocky catacombs, grabbing the journal of the Sermonizer on the way. Astara would probably like to read that.

Guards were patrolling the passage, but they were foolish, heavy armored louts. All she had to do was creep up behind them and shove the Blade of Woe in a few key places.

Her passionate, fire burning anger was dissipating, and she felt much better for it. She wasn't used to that kind of flame—she was used to the slow burning hatred she always carried.

She couldn't even remember her brief skirmish with the Sermonizer, she'd been so blinded by emotion. She needed to be calm.

Calm like when she murdered Galen, the man who'd raped her. She'd been perfectly rational then, so much so that she could remember it perfectly, even now. She'd prayed to Mephala before that kill. Today, she would pray to the Night Mother.

Up ahead, a huge cavern expanded outwards. It looked to be part of an old Aylied ruin. There were six guards with the Sermonizer, weapons drawn and ready to fight. The Sermonizer stood at the back. She knew she needed a plan, otherwise she would die here, and she had made a promise. She hid back behind a stony outcropping.

She needed to preoccupy the six guards while she took on the Sermonizer, and there was only one way she knew how to do that. In order to do what she needed to, she needed to be calm, needed to be relaxed. She'd only done this once before, when fighting Angof and his army of undead.

She meditated there, for what could have been a few minutes or half an hour, breathing in, breathing out. The dead guards in the passageway didn't mind her presence, anyway, and the Sermonizer could be patient. It was hard to keep her mind off of the pain in her side, and the stiffness in her bones, but it was bodily pain against sheer strength of will, and Thérèse had had a long time to build up her resolve.

When she rose, she felt strong. Not wholly relaxed, but ready. She felt magicka in her veins, ready to burst forth from her lips. Lightning bolts licked at her hands.

She rolled into the chamber, landed on her knees, and raised her arms towards the heavens, charged daedric words leaping from her tongue and into the air. The ground shook, and stones rose from the depths of Oblivion to form her giant minion. A Storm Atronach.

The soldiers yelled as she commanded it to attack, forcing each one to turn their attention on it instead of her. She advanced on the Sermonizer, legs weak from the exertion of her summoning. She would not let that stop her. She brought down her arms and pulled another creature from oblivion, a clannfear, and robed herself in electricity. Her muscles strained as she pulled more and more life force from herself to accomplish these actions, but she knew that she would need every ounce of power she could muster.

"Hello, Priestess." Thérèse said calmly, face a mask of stoicism. "Say hello to my friends."

The Sermonizer glanced at the Atronach, and the lightning from it's attacks lit up her eyes. Then, she shrugged off her worry and turned back to the sorceress. "They are pawns."

Thérèse narrowed her eyes. "And when it's done playing with your pawns, who do you think it will play with next?"

The Sermonizer yelled as she charged her, and Thérèse rolled out of the way nimbly. She sent bolts of electricity her way, and each one diminished the shield she'd built around herself. Her clannfear lunged and bit at the Sermonizer so much that she had to turn and focus her attention on it.

That was fine with Thérèse. The Sorceress raised her hands in front of her and formed sharp shards of crystal, and with a shout filled with a little bit of her raw rage, sent them flying into the Sermonizer's back. The priestess fell, but so did Thérèse.

Beads of sweat rolled off of her forehead and her muscles cramped. She was going too far, and calling on too much magic. With protesting arms, she pushed herself off of the stone ground, grasping a ruined dais for help in getting up.

The Sermonizer had risen, and nearly disintegrated the clannfear with her large mace. She turned and advanced on Thérèse, but she didn't look much better.

"You came to Akatosh for help." She hissed. "Why were you so determined to hate us? Is that just how murderers are made?"

Thérèse felt her calm slipping away. " _Me? I_ was determined to hate you? _You_ were the one who drove hate further and further into my heart like a stake. _You_ didn't make me love Akatosh, you didn't even make me fear him. You made me _hate_ him. You made me _pity_ him for having followers as heretic and cruel as you."

It was the Sermonizer's turn to be overcome by anger. She charged. With the last remaining ounce of strength she had, Thérèse sidestepped, grabbed the mace, and tripped the Sermonizer.

As she lay on the ground, Thérèse lifted the mace high into the air and brought it down on her legs. The bones shattered and the scream that filled the air could have curdled blood less thick than hers.

Glancing over, she saw that the Atronach had dispatched the guards, and was standing there, immobile. What could have been it's stony face stared at her. "I release you." She murmured, holding up a hand towards it's giant form. It faded away like dust in the wind, and some of it's power flowed back into Thérèse.

Now, the room was silent, except for the pained panting of the Sermonizer. Casually, Thérèse walked around her body until she reached an arm. She stepped on her shoulder and then wrenched up, and was satisfied with the sharp snap of bone. She circled the body and did the same for the other arm.

The Grand Sermonizer screamed in pain, voice hoarse and thin. "You…bitch."

"Watch your language, you're the walking will of Akatosh, remember?" Thérèse grabbed her side roughly and rolled her over, limp and shattered limbs jerking along the way. She sat next to the Sermonizer's head and looked down into her eyes.

"Did you ever hear about the murder of Galen Terenus?" It was sweet to watch the fear appear in the broken woman's eyes, growing more prevalent as realization swept across her mind. "Such a brutal murder. But then, he deserved it, didn't he?" Thérèse folded her arms on her lap like she was conversing with an old friend. "You would have had me believe that it was all my fault, but he was the one who made the choice. He was the one that assaulted a fourteen year old girl in a dark alley, while she was walking home after picking _flowers._ " Her hazel eyes seemed darker as they slipped down to the Sermonizer's face. "You made me want to kill them. Without you, I never would have learned how to compartmentalize my rage into my own soul, the very fiber of my being. You're the one who taught me what cruelty was." A spark appeared at the tip of her finger, growing larger and more violent until it was the size of a walnut. "And you took her away from me." The Sermonizer started to whimper. "Now, you'll know how I felt when you ripped her from my arms." Dark lips jerked into a lopsided smile, and a hint of madness formed behind her eyes. "Open up."

Screams richer than red wine resounded off of the walls, dripped from the pillars, and swirled in the echoes of the stone.

Thérèse walked up the stairs, fingers still sparking, limp at her side. Face calm, ivory, and slack, she opened the door to the ebony night, ignoring the tears that snaked down her face.

* * *

The door to the Sanctuary swung open, and Thérèse stepped inside, still hollow. Still numb. Elam stepped out of his alcove and frowned. "They were wondering if you'd make it back. They don't know what's going to happen to Tanek." He paused, teeth clenched. "Did you make her death painful?"

Thérèse smiled, and her lips bore cruelty. "She felt more pain than you've ever felt in your life." Her eyes were so still, so utterly truthful that even Elam didn't have anything to say in remark. She walked up the stairs towards the main hall, brushing past the Speaker on her way.

"Initiate." He called.

She paused and turned to him. "Yes, Speaker?"

His eyes studied her face for a long moment, and he stepped toward her. "How did she die?" He sounded curious.

Why should he care how she died? Perhaps he hated her, too, for some reason. Thérèse thought for a moment. "From the inside out." Then, without waiting for him to dismiss her, she turned and headed up the stairs.

Astara was waiting for her, arms crossed, face a frown. "Welcome back, Initiate. Kor brought Tanek home, injured but alive. He told me you went after the Grand Sermonizer. Alone." Her lips pressed together. "Tell me, has the deed been done?"

Thérèse nodded. "She's dead, and so are her priests. I assume Kor told you about Cimbar."

She growled and looked to the side. "Cimbar was one of our best. To allow himself to be captured like that…I didn't think that either the Grand Sermonizer or the Order of the Hour was capable of such a feat. Why go though all that trouble, I wonder?"

Thérèse pulled the Sermonizer's journal out of her bag and handed it to Astara. She'd paged through it on the way back. "A warrior in black armor captured Cimbar. Said she wanted to learn the location of our Sanctuary."

Astara frowned, skimming the pages. "Black armor? I've heard rumors of such a warrior. But to seek the location of our Sanctuary?" She slammed the book closed with ferocity. "It appears we're at war with an unknown adversary. I need to think about this." She sighed and waved a hand at Thérèse. "Tanek woke, he asked to see you."

Thérèse nodded, and wordlessly headed towards the bunk room. Well, he was alive. That was good. He'd promised to teach her how to lockpick. The feeble joke her mind had attempted slipped right past her.

She saw Kor and Hildegarde by Tanek, looming over his bed. Tanek coughed. "New-blade. Thought you were food for worms." Huh. Mannimarco would appreciate that. Again, she didn't smile, only nodded.

Kor turned and grinned. "Sister, you're alive!" He crushed her in a giant hug, but this time she felt no warmth. She forced out a smile. "I mean, you promised, so I knew you were coming back, but still."

Hildegarde was looking very intently at her face. "Tanek was saying he wanted to talk to you." She said softly.

Thérèse nodded and moved past them. Tanek was laying on a stretcher, shirtless. He looked smaller now than he had earlier. "Kor and Hildegarde mean well, but they're worse than a couple of mother hens." He coughed. "You're alive. Does that mean the Grand Sermonizer is no longer with us?"

Thérèse pursed her lips. "She's dead. But how are you doing?"

He shrugged, and it looked odd from someone who was laying down. "We're not certain what kind of magic the Grand Sermonizer placed upon Cimbar's body, but I'd be dead, too, if not for you and Kor." He paused. "I'm indebted to you both."

Thérèse sighed. "At least they didn't learn where the Sanctuary was." She remembered Cimbar's mangled body, and was glad she'd done the same to the Sermonizer.

Tanek's jaw hardened. "And I'll make sure that everyone remembers Cimbar's bravery. He refused to give up our secret, no matter what the Grand Sermonizer did to him." He sighed. "It does make you wonder about the warrior who was able to defeat him, though." Thérèse nodded, remembering the black warrior. "Cimbar could easily best me in a fight, and that warrior bested him...If you encounter her again, don't underestimate her skills and abilities. She's hunting the hunters, and that's a game I have no desire to play."

She smiled dully and nodded again, not really fully listening. "Is there anything else you need?"

He laughed. "Uh, a chance to beat your record. How many of the Sermonizer's priests did you murder, anyway?" His smile drifted away and his face became solemn. "Seriously, New-blade, stay sharp out there. The roots of our trouble stretch deep below the soil. Things are going to get worse, my friend. Mark my words."

* * *

In the bowels of the Sanctuary were the bathing pools. At this time of night, no one was there. No one except Thérèse. She sat in the dark, in the warm hot-spring water, and stared blankly ahead. She'd told herself she had gone there to clean up, to relax, but she wasn't doing either of those things.

Really, she was remembering the kill she had made tonight. She was remembering Galen's, too.

Such raw and agonizing pain. She would want mercy if she were in their place…but she had no room in her heart for forgiveness, for either of them. She'd left her heart open to the possibility when she'd first walked up the steps to the Akatosh Cathedral, but that had soon been washed away.

 _If you hadn't paraded yourself around like a slut, the man never would have touched you._

She clenched her jaw.

 _Hello, sweetheart. What's you're name?_

His voice had sounded so kind at first. Her jaw was hurting with the effort she was expending to close off the scream in her throat, the ever present sob.

"Thérèse?" Came a soft, female voice from the dark. "May I join you?" It was Hildegarde.

The sorceress paused. "Um, yes, that's fine." Why would she want to join her at this time of night?

She heard the soft sound of clothes being piled up on rocks, and then careful splashes as someone entered the pool. "It feels good, the warm water."

Thérèse nodded, then remembered that it was too dark to see. "Yeah, it helps you relax."

"But you're not relaxed." Came the soft, Nord voice. "I can tell something is wrong. Some of the others can't see, but…I know what it is like to feel so much hurt that…that you can't think straight." There was a pause. She was right. She was angry, she was irreparably hurt. But what could she do about it? "I brought some soap I made myself, from flowers that grow nearby. I like how they smell." She said gently. "It's for your hair…do you want to try some?"

Some part of Thérèse broke, just then. This girl…so young and shy. She was trying to help her in the only way she knew how, innocently and awkwardly.

She covered her face with wet hands and began to sob.

"Oh…oh, are you alright?" Hildegarde's voice became a little panicked. Thérèse jumped as a tentative hand reached out to search for her in the dark. It jerked away as it felt skin. "Was that…was that your shoulder?"

Thérèse nodded again, then cursed silently. "Y-yes." The hand came back, braver now, and laid itself on her shoulder.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Such an innocent question.

She wanted to keep it bottled up inside. She wanted to be calm, stoic Thérèse. She hated it when her emotions got the better of her. But it was useless. She needed to let some of it out. "If you promise you won't tell anyone else, especially Venom-Tongue."

Hildegarde didn't laugh, but said solemnly, "My lips are sealed, Sister. What so bothered you about the Grand Sermonizer?"

And so she told her. The first person she'd ever told about everything. Galen's son…she'd told him some of it, but she hadn't included the feelings, the raw details. She told Hildegarde how the charming noble had lured her in, how he'd ruined her life. She told her how he'd left her pregnant, and how her parents had disowned her because she wouldn't kill the child inside of her. They didn't want the scandal, you see. She told her how, desperate, she'd fallen at the feet of the Priestesses of Akatosh and begged for them to take her in.

And they had.

Thérèse let the tears come, choking on sobs. "The head priestess there—the grand sermonizer—was so cruel to me. She called me horrible names, said it was all my fault. And when my baby was born, I only got to hold her once before she took her away." She growled in anger at the memory of her perfect daughter, her little baby…as she was torn away from her arms. "I don't know, maybe it was her cruelty that made me kill my parents and Galen for what they'd done to me…She taught me what real hatred was. Seeing her…it made me feel like I was fourteen again, in that alley. Helpless. I don't even feel better for killing her." She clenched her jaw and laid her hand on top of Hildegarde's.

The girl had stayed silent for the entirety of her story, and only now did she speak. "I'd no idea you'd lived through such pain. No wonder you are so strong. But even strong people have to cry, Sister. Even strong people have to let some of the pain out. Killing doesn't always let the pain out."

Thérèse nodded, then laughed. She had strength enough to laugh. The sound of it instantly made her heart feel lighter. "Thank you, Hildegarde."

"Of course, Sister." There was some rattling, like glass hitting stone. "I want you to relax now. Let me wash your hair."

Thérèse didn't know if that was a Nord custom, or if Hildegarde was just being sweet, but she loved it all the same. She turned so that the girl could reach her hair. "Thank you."

Something cold oozed onto her head, and then Hildegarde's tiny hands were there, sudsing up the soap.

Thérèse finally did relax, as the scent of peony and lilac filled the air. She felt clean, in more ways than one.

"There, it is done." Said Hildegarde seriously. "Now, let's get out of the water before we prune. I think you need rest." She was right, again, of course. The soft linen robe felt good against her skin. When they stepped into the light, Thérèse was struck yet again by how young Hildegarde was. She was around the age her daughter would be.

They went back to the bunkroom, but it was empty except for Tanek in the corner. "My brother is probably eating. Mirabelle is…somewhere." Hildegarde looked down. "She loved Cimbar."

"Oh." Was all Thérèse could say.

Hildegarde sat next to her on the bed and frowned slightly. "You mentioned a boy, Galen's son."

Fasion. He had helped her when no one else had.

"I just thought you should know. The Speaker…his last name is Terenus."


	6. Here, For Your Trouble

_Sixteen Years Ago_

* * *

She dropped the coin next to his face, and it clattered on the stone floor.

His screams, music to her ears, had already alerted those upstairs. The wood above her creaked with the sound of footsteps, and she could hear shouts. Passing one last glance at his writhing body, Monet rushed to the window. She had cased the basement from outside, and knew she could fit through the narrow opening. She grabbed the handle and yanked at it, but it didn't turn. It was locked. Her eyes widened. No, no that couldn't be! She'd checked to see if the windows were locked from outside just earlier! She rushed to the other window, then the next, jiggling each one with increasing hysteria. Ice clutched at her chest, and she stepped back, efforts stilled. Very well, she was trapped. She didn't have any lock picks with her, and even if she did, she wouldn't have any idea how to use them.

Fighting her way out then, was her only choice. She wished it hadn't come to this. There were innocent people who would oppose her. She might kill one of them, or two, before they finally took her down. But she would not go quietly, no. She would not rot in a cell or be sent off to some crazy house. Worst of all, she wouldn't have this hushed up by wealthy relatives as mere feminine hysteria. No, she had thought this all through, and she wanted everyone to know that.

Electricity surged at her fingertips and she grasped her small dagger tightly, waiting to face whoever came down first. Or…should she make a run for it? She would get bottlenecked down here. But at least she could face them here, and not have any attacks aimed at her back.

Galen's gurgling screams were quieting now, and becoming more like helpless moans. Good, then. He sounded just like she had. She hoped he was feeling the same fear.

Running then, or staying? Her foot inched forward, but she didn't move otherwise. Blood pulsed in her ears. Fear was gripping her like icy fog.

Someone ran down the stairs, and she jumped, stepping back in jagged fear. She raised her hand to shock them, but she just couldn't. She was cold, and sweaty, and the magicka wouldn't come.

"Stop, I won't hurt you." He said quickly, holding up his hands. It was Galen's son. She'd seen him when she was casing the place, helping his mother with the garden. He'd moved the rocks, and tilled the dirt, and let his mother do the softer things, like shaping the roots with her graceful hands. Her mother had hands like that. She supposed she might someday too. He stepped forward. "I'll help you escape, just listen to me." He was hardly older than she was, but his noble blood was evident in his striking features.

Help her escape? Why on Nirn would he help her? But she didn't have many options. "I'll listen." She said with a shaky voice. She swallowed, and gathered her wits.

He nodded once. "Good." Galen gave another choked gasp and his son glanced down at him disinterestedly.

"F—Fas—ion." Galen intoned in agony, reaching a hand out to his son. The action was not received with care. Monet had never seen such ice in a face before. A shiver ran down her spine at the unmasked cold disdain, sharp as knives.

He looked back up to her. "I have the key. I'll unlock the window for you." He stepped across the room with long strides. "Just meet me at your house in three hours, I want to explain." The metal key clicked in place with a breath of freedom, and his cold eyes were back on her, yet this time, they were warm. "Will you do that?"

Answers for the key, for the help, and for that look of hatred for the man who was his father. She supposed she was curious enough for that. If he wanted her arrested, he wouldn't be helping her now, anyway. She nodded. "Three hours, and—thank you."

His grim face gave way to a sly smile. "I should be thanking you. Now go, quickly."

She turned and pulled her way out of the window, twisting her hips just so to fit through the narrow rectangle. Glancing around quickly, she saw no guards—yet. She dropped into a crouch, skirted the wall, and then fell into the Anvil streets. Now she wasn't a murderer, just an innocent civilian.

A guard nodded to her, and she smiled back.

* * *

She cinched up the last bag and set it by the door. The jewelry was in there—it was expensive and light. Her coin purse was bulging, and she'd had to fill another one to handle the excess. It would be enough to take her away from here.

"I see you're prepared."

She spun around in fright, to let it fall away when she saw that it was him. She glanced at the clock. Exactly three hours.

"It pays to have wealthy parents, as long as it's gold you want, and not love." They hadn't cared for her, only of themselves. They would have been murderers in their own right….and murderers of the innocent.

He snorted. "That's true." His dark hair was short and well-kept, and she had the feeling he liked it that way. He looked almost like a noble, but his cheeks were still somewhat round with youth. Just like her, she supposed. "There's something I wish to talk to you about." His voice was conversational, strange against the backdrop of the morning.

Just then, her stomach rumbled. The odd timing would have made her laugh ten months previous, but nothing was the same now. She simply smiled ruefully. "A discussion over breakfast, then." With the extension of her arm towards the kitchen, she felt insanely like her mother. She'd always stood there, perfectly, like a painted doll, offering her fake smiles and trained posture to guests in a way that Monet would never be able to. What an act. There was no substance to the life her parents had clung to so dearly.

The man—boy—nodded and stepped aside for her to lead him to the kitchen. "Molly—our maid—is out for the week. Sick relatives, she believes. It's all well, but there isn't much to eat." Monet grabbed two apples, a loaf of bread, and two cheese wedges, and put them on the small table in the kitchen where the maid usually ate. There was no sense in eating in the large formal dining room, there would be too much empty, useless space assaulting the senses. She grabbed a knife and, after a moment's deliberation, a bottle of wine and two cups.

"She believes?" Asked Fasion curiously, standing behind one of the chairs at the table.

Monet gave a sound of affirmation and set down the glasses. " _I_ sent the letter." With one hand she gestured for him to sit. "An old Breton vintage—Cerisier Doux."

They both sat, and he tipped his head to the side, already looking comfortable in the wooden chair. They were opposites. Even with his poised demeanor, he somehow made it look like he was lounging. Monet sat on only half of her chair, back straight, arms resting on her lap. Perhaps it had been the training she loathed that made her sit so primly. It was equally likely that it was just how she liked to sit—ready to spring up at any moment, alert and refined in balanced measure.

A slow, sly smirk creeped along his lips. "Your parents won't be waking up, then?"

Something in Monet's chest stirred. "No." A steady hand grabbed the wine bottle. "Shall I?" Wordlessly, he held his cup out for her to fill. "They were saving this for a gala, a little reception they were throwing in celebration of your father's art."

At the mention of his father, Fasion's features darkened again. He snorted. "He called it art." Looking at the black cherry-red liquid, his jaw clenched. "A toast, then, to those soon to be six feet under." Monet raised a brow, and her lip twitched.

"Hear hear." Their cups touched together with a ring that floated on the air. There was a moment of shared silence as they took drinks, followed by the cutting of bread and cheese. "You didn't help me crawl out of your basement window for this quaint little breakfast, did you?"

He chuckled, a surprisingly earthy sound. "Of course not, though I am enjoying myself." The smile fell from his face and he became serious. "I've killed before, just like you."

Monet blinked, mouth suddenly dry. She disguised her surprise with a motion to her wine glass. "Who?"

A finger dragged across his lips, and his thumb pressed on the edge of his jaw. "The nursemaid." He raised his eyebrows in a gesture and reached for his glass, leaning back in his chair. "She was cruel to my younger sister, to the point of starving her. Never gave a reason for it, either. My parents wouldn't believe me."

"So, you killed her?" The sweet and sultry silk of the cherry wine slid down her throat like a tonic. Fasion nodded, taking a crisp bite out of an apple. Monet's dark hazel eyes glanced to the side, looking at nothing in particular. They narrowed, and the skin of her forehead crinkled minutely. "I probably would've too." From her throat, a thoughtful hum issued forth. "Strange, they tell you murder is the chiefest of sins. I disagree. Murder is the response to sins greater than itself. It's a tool for digging, not the hole itself."

At that, Fasion laughed. Not the wry, down to earth chuckle that so disagreed with his demeanor, but a pleased, full, deep laugh that sounded both strange and inviting on his lips. "Poetic. And true, very true."

It was then that she noticed how lightly her muscles were strung, and how casually her hand grasped the glass of wine. She was…comfortable. Relaxed, even. Not happy, but content. It was as strange to her as snow was to Elsweyr. She hadn't been comfortable in her skin for as long as she could remember. Blinking, she swallowed and set the glass down. "Is that all you wished to tell me?"

"Not all, Miss Rienne." He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a carefully folded piece of parchment. He unwrapped it from itself and smoothed it before turning it round and placing it on the tabletop.

It was a black hand, stark against the aged tan of the paper. A large hand, fingers splayed out dominantly across the space. Underneath it, scratched out in neat, cryptic letters, were two words. We Know. "I received it awhile back. Shortly after, I was visited in the night."

Monet could hardly believe it. She leaned forward in her chair and squinted at the crevices in the paint, reflecting someone's own living flesh. "The Brotherhood." She breathed it like a sanctity. "They're real?"

Fasion smiled, eyes cruelly glinting. "Very much so. I'm going to take them up on their offer."

Remembering herself, she leaned back slightly. "Why tell me?"

He took a breath and retrieved the paper, folding it back up tidily. "Because, you're not a fool. I can see that you're prepared to leave, to flee your crime." He raised a dark eyebrow. "But you don't have to. Stay, join the Brotherhood. You'll no doubt be receiving correspondence in accordance to your…" He paused, glancing up and grinning, "…accomplishments."

Join the Brotherhood. As simple as that. A den of murderers, of like minded sinners, marked by these hands of black. A home. But right now, she didn't need a home. She wanted a life. Home was dresses, and manners, and lies, and rules, and betrayal. Every sordid memory that she wanted to wrap up in noble's robes and burn away. Life was…it was…well, she didn't know. Not anymore. She couldn't stay here, but she could start somewhere else. She had a sizable chunk of money. Buy a house, get a job…be someone else. She wasn't even sure if she was a murderer. Well, she was. But she didn't know if she had room for more than three deaths in her hands. Pursing her lips, she sighed. "I don't think so, Fasion. I"m going to be leaving."

He regarded her for a long moment, tilting his head back and spying her through gray, striking eyes. "Very well."

She raised a brow. "No argument?" He seemed like a man who could talk his way into anything.

With nimble, strong fingers, he fiddled with his glass, twisting it in circles. "You think, Miss Rienne, unlike most women born into families with money. I can see it in your eyes. In those brief moments, you weighed your options, things I know nothing of." He shrugged, meeting her gaze casually. "Why argue with a decision that's been intelligently made?" As she blinked at the compliment, he reached once again in his pocket, pulling something out and looking at it in his palm.

"I believe this is yours." A coin flipped through the air, and she caught it narrowly. It glimmered in her open palm, like a joke. Like a laugh.

Her jaw clenched. _"Here, for your trouble."_ His voice echoed in her mind. She could remember it perfectly, the single coin hitting the puddle, sending droplets into her eyes. It shone against the mud, collecting droplets from the sky. The priests said that everything good came from heaven, but who claimed those terrible things, that came from the sky? "More like your father's." She closed her hand around it. "A token of his." The calm that had surrounded their strange breakfast had shattered like bones in a fire.

His mouth thinned into a line, and he suddenly looked much older. "Ah."

Monet was determined not to cry. It wasn't hard, to push those feelings away. Lately, it was very easy to feel nothing. "I don't want it." She hissed, looking away from her hand as if that would make it disappear.

"Then I'll take it." He said, one hand held out between them. "To remember you by. To remember the luck I was granted at having my father silenced, and the _price_ that was paid for it to be so."

She frowned. What boy spoke like this, with poetry and calm, elegant words? She knew not, only knew that the boy that sat at this table was more than what he seemed.

She'd never quite got the knack for flicking coins. The stableboy had tried to teach her. She simply handed it back to him, and shuddered when the cool metal was gone from her skin. "So, you wanted your father dead."

He regarded the coin grimly. "I was going to kill him myself." Silver eyes narrowed. "He beats her, you see. My mother." A smile creeped onto his lips. "Though I suppose that is to be past tense now." He slipped the coin into his pocket, and then his face went slack. "I should get back, and play my last part as the noble's son. And you…you should get going, to escape the news."

Monet pressed her lips together and nodded. "Yes." She stood as he did, reaching over the table to shake his hand. "Thank you."

He nodded and smiled again, a smooth and dark smile. "Of course, we murderers have to stick together."

The back door closed roughly on it's hinges, but there was no one in the large house to hear it, other than Monet. Sighing, she poured herself another glass of wine. She would be gone before night fell on Anvil, out of Cyrodiilic waters. Five hundred gold coins would buy her a place on a ship up to High Rock, but she wouldn't pay anything for the peace of mind.


	7. Sacrament and Shared Wine

**_Hello all! Finally got this chapter edited for you all, and I hope you guys enjoy it. This is my favourite chapter so far, and I'd love to hear your opinion of it! Thanks for reading:)_**

The room was empty, except for the Speaker. The warm red light from the stained glass flickered along with the fire. Thérèse stepped in. She knew he was aware of her. Even if she was trying for stealth, she had a feeling that he would be able to pick her out.

She moved to the back of the room, and sat herself in a meditative style on one of the large stone medallions that rose from the ground.

She observed him silently from behind. His hands were clasped loosely at his back, and he stood straight, though not rigidly so. Each consecutive time she saw him, she thought of him less as a shadow, and more of a man. How had she not recognized him? It seemed to fit now that she knew who he was. His face and his voice, though aged, still belonged to him.

"May I have a word, Speaker?" She asked, voice filling the cavernous room.

He sighed. "Yes, of course, Initiate." He did not turn to address her, but his posture seemed more…open, somehow.

She narrowed her eyes as she thought. What could she say, other than what was on her mind. "You sent the letter." She stated softly. She did not need to be loud to let her voice carry in this room.

"Logically, yes. I am the Speaker of this Sanctuary. I recruit possible Initiates." His head was tilted slightly to the side to speak over his shoulder, but he did not turn around.

Her lips quirked gently, knowingly, and the action lent its tone to her words. "That's not what I mean…Terenus." She exhaled, exasperated. "Fasion Terenus." The silence blossomed in the air between them. "I heard Hildegarde mention your name." She sighed and frowned slightly. "I should have recognized you sooner."

"Should you have?" He said slowly, darkly.

Thérèse hummed to herself. "Your eyes. Like steel. I thought it when I saw you in the lighthouse, but I didn't connect it. I've only ever met one other person with eyes like that."

"Such flattering words, Initiate." His words were softer, though still as dark.

She slipped off of her perch and walked over to him, footfalls barely making a sound on the stone floor. Taking her place beside him, she looked up at the stained glass. It was a beautiful masterpiece depicting a heart, pierced by a simple blade. It could mean many things, but to Thérèse, it meant closure. Closure, certainty, and penance. Those who's lives are taken from them get their due, and their blood washes clean their trespasses. "Can I see it?" She inquired lightly. Behind her voice was a veiled strain, something beyond pain, and rooted in nightmare. She was certain he heard it. Her pale hand stretched in front of her.

He deposited the coin lightly into her palm, and she pulled it closer to her. She'd handled thousands of coins in her life, but this one? This one she would remember. She would feel it cold against her bones any day. She frowned. "Beyond recognizing you, I should think I would have remembered this, when I saw it at the lighthouse. The way the fire glinted off of it…" She trailed off, jaw clenching around her words. She held it back out for him to take. "Well, it seems to work." She sighed. "You remembered me, at any rate."

He pinched the coin between his middle finger and forefinger, and twisted it in the light of the brazier. "Hmm…I didn't need the coin for that, Initiate."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" She asked, eyes like flint, still trained on the coin. _'Here, for your trouble.'_ His voice still followed her, through nightmare into waking hours. "You had no hope of keeping your name from me."

He chuckled. "A game, Initiate. Perhaps I wanted to see if you'd recognize me." He finally looked at her, eyes sharp as ever. "Or perhaps I tire of introductions."

Her eyebrow rose. "Introductions were made long ago."

"Yes. As I recall, my father was writhing pitifully on the floor of my family's basement when I first saw you." His lip quirked. "Such an artfully vicious death…"

Her jaw clenched and she looked ahead of her. The screams and moans of Galen Terenus had been etched into her mind, perhaps even what would have been her soul. Where once they had been sweet music, they had soured over the years. What good was it that his death was painful? His pain hadn't taken what he'd done away. It didn't change that she was alone, and angry, and short a family. Well, maybe not short a family… "It was a miracle the spell worked." She murmured absently, eyes unblinkingly observing the stone wall before her.

He cast his eyes down at her, observing her posture, her icy gaze. "Disintegrated him from the inside out. It was an intricate spell, for one so young. And the Sermonizer got a taste of it too, it seems." So _that's_ why he was so interested in the way she had killed her.

She blinked and met his gaze, all silver and cold and full of thought. If his father hadn't had such a taste for underage girls, she never would have had to use it. She could see it there, in the set of his jaw, and the lines of his face. He bore a trace resemblance to his father—to the monster that had taught her what hatred truly was. "Come with me, Initiate."

Startled out of her reverie, she frowned and trailed after him. "Where?"

He didn't even turn around to address her. "Somewhere more private to continue our conversation."

When she was younger, words like that would have made her freeze in her tracks like a hare. She was older now, and more sure of her abilities. It wasn't like she expected the Speaker to accost her, but she knew that being prepared was never a bad thing to be. So she followed him, having to walk a little faster than normal to keep up.

He walked into the pool at the foot of the waterfall, but he didn't sink in like she had expected. When she arrived at the edge of the water, she saw that there were little rounds of rock that rose up from the bottom, mere inches from the surface. Stepping carefully, she continued after the Speaker, wondering where they were heading. When she looked up, he was gone.

She frowned. He didn't seem like the type to pull a joke on her. Following the underwater pathway, she only saw the camouflaged entrance to the cavern when she was a foot away. The stone curved around itself in a way that hid the entrance from view at almost any angle. "Interesting." She found herself murmuring as she slipped through the opening.

Candles clung to the sides of the room, but it was by no means bright. She wiped the thin layer of water off of her face with a sleeve.

"An office of mine, as it were. I use it when I am here for business." He turned to her with two empty wine glasses, and gestured for her to have a seat in one of two armchairs.

"I see I get a proper chair this time." She said, studying the room. It was simple, and plain. A small bed was pushed up against the wall, and a desk littered with papers and stained with ink occupied the other corner. It was quaint, but not exactly how she expected a Speaker of the Brotherhood to live.

"Perhaps because there is no dead woman to occupy your seat." He said, voice that mix of shadow and calm. The air was cut by the sound of a popping cork, and Thérèse smiled as the smell wafted towards her.

"Cerisier Doux?" She asked, a laugh in her voice. "I'd have thought that was just to charm me in the lighthouse."

"I've developed quite a taste for it myself, in fact." He murmured duskily, filling both of their glasses. "Very sweet for Breton wine."

It seemed altogether strange for this shadow-cloaked man to be pouring wine and having casual conversation. "It's why I like it." She smiled, sitting primly in her own chair.

He took his seat and threw his hood back, and it took all of her control to hide her surprise at the gesture. He had quite a normal head, to be sure, covered in short, pepper grey hair, but she just hadn't expected to ever see him without shadow around his neck. She supposed she would get tired of being hooded all of the time, too.

He leaned over and looked at her, a crooked smile just barely touching his lips. "You still sit like that, after all of these years."

She blinked and frowned. It was such an odd thing for him to notice, and to say. Why would he care? It was his job to case people, but why remember how she sat when she was fifteen? "I suppose I do." She said stiffly, taking the wine glass into her hands. She was aware now, even more, of how he studied her, how he talked to her.

"You expressed an interest in learning more about the Night Mother." He stated, swirling the wine in his glass as he studied it, eyes narrowed. "What did you want to know."

She frowned, thoughts disjointed and overlapped. The feeling from the lighthouse came back, the feeling of being ungrounded and loose, like something inside her had snapped. "I…I suppose I wanted to know where she came from." She asked, trying to forcefully ground herself. Yes, that was a reasonable question to ask.

His lips pressed against the glass, and he sipped the wine, savored it with his eyes closed. It may have been her imagination, but his lips were a little redder when he turned to her. "That question," He murmured, "I can answer, thoroughly, if you wish." She nodded, unable to find any words to say. Was that a brief smile before he turned his face away from her? Her mind was playing tricks.

"The Night Mother was once mortal, like you and I, and she was chosen by Our Dread Father to fill the Void with souls in his name. He beget her five children, and when he demanded it, she sent their souls to the Void as well."

Thérèse nearly choked on her wine, but she managed to swallow it and avoid coughing by a near margin. "She killed her own children?"

He looked at her as if _her_ surprise was the odd response. "Of course. She sent them to their father in the comforting embrace of the Void, where no evils could harm them, no weapons touch them. Where they could know only the love of their father, and of their mother." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back in the armchair. "The Void, where we will all rest one day."

But she wasn't listening, not intently. In her mind's eye, she remembered that day, sixteen years ago. Oh, to hold her child in her arms...Only once did she see her before they took her away to be someone else's.

Those little, tiny hands—fingers thinner than a flower stalk. Eyes just open to the world, and cheeks as soft as down.

"Monet?"

At first she hadn't heard it, or at least, she didn't register it. It was someone she used to be. Then, she blinked, and turned to Terenus in confusion. "What?" She jerked her head side to side. "I don't go by that name anymore."

He half nodded, eyes locked in hers. "Yes. Yes, of course. Initiate."

Something wet moved on her face, and she closed her eyes in horror at the realization that she'd been crying. In front of the Speaker. With a shaky hand, she wiped the single tear away. Her hands never shook. Why were they unsteady now? What had he said earlier in the lighthouse? _The weak deserve their apportioned reward._

"You know the love of a mother, Initiate." His voice, deceptively soft, met her through her closed eyes. "That is the love the Night Mother feels towards you, and all of her children. One day, we will take our place next to her in the Void."

Did the Night Mother love her? Well, right now was not the right time to do soul searching. Hmm. Soul searching. She was clearly affected by something, the wine, probably. "If that's all, Speaker." She rose, hands folded at her stomach.

He rose too. "Actually, I have a task for you, if you're interested." His eyes glinted with something close to cruelty. "A contract."

She took a breath to rally her nerves. There was no need to run and hide like a startled deer. "I'm interested."

He nodded. "Good. But before we proceed, I offer you a challenge. Two, in fact." His voice dropped even deeper, into the depths that spoke of murder. "Consider it a bonus—a chance to demonstrate your skill. If you succeed, I'll reward you. If you fail?" He paused. "So be it. As long as the target dies, the Sacrament is fulfilled." She nodded to show that she was listening. He turned from her, arms folded behind his back. "Your target awaits in the Smuggler's Den. It's a damp and torchlit cave—the perfect hiding place for fugitives and witless thugs."

"And the challenges?" She inquired, intrigued by the strange stipulation.

"True followers of Sithis are like wraiths—only visible when they wish to be." He expounded. "Show me that you are a master of stealth. Complete your task without alerting the residents of the Smuggler's den to your presence." She began to respond, but he continued. "The work of an assassin demands secrecy, certainly, but also speed. With that in mind, I challenge you to finish your dark work before the tunnel's Overseer arrives."

"It will be done." She responded swiftly. Two challenges. Be silent, be swift. She turned to go, but he continued further.

"It seems that our target has a taste for the fouler things in life. We should give them a taste of their own bitter medicine, don't you agree? Use poison to kill your prey."

Wasn't that three challenges? "Is there anything else?" Thérèse intoned, not very successful at filtering the irritation out of her voice.

"I'm glad you asked." He replied silkily. "Apparently these smugglers have unearthed an object of some value. A Kwama Queen Egg. Rumor has it that they're quite beautiful. The promise of a new, industrious colony contained in a single vessel."

Did he want her to steal it? They were large, weren't they? How would she carry it?

"Destroy it." He growled, voice steel and sharp.

She had to bite her lip to keep herself from repeating his words in shock, and clenched her jaw. Of course. He was a murderer, not an acclimated member of society. Of course he wanted it destroyed. And yet, with all of this, she realized she didn't even know who she had to kill. "Who is my target?"

"A chef named Daynil Uveleth. She was called to prepare a great feast for House Hlaalu. Alas, she used sour kwama eggs in her famous soufflé. Dark Elf nobles are not fond of parties that end with relentless vomiting. Kill this cook."

Even irritated at her task of destroying the egg, Thérèse had to smile at the way he said those words seriously. "Her soul will fill the Void by the end of the day." She responded. What all did she have to do again? Not be seen, leave quickly, destroy the egg, and kill the cook. Oh, but she had to kill the cook with poison, as well. A laundry list of challenges. Why on earth was he so interested in challenges?

Deep in her thoughts, she had not noticed him turn. He walked towards her, only a few inches taller, but towering all the same.

She held her ground, swallowing absently. From this distance, she could smell the cherry wine on his breath.

"Do not dally." He murmured. "A throat awaits your blade's sharp kiss." If his eyes flickered to her own throat, it was so quick that she couldn't be sure.

Her eyes wanted to flutter, but she held them to a simple blink. "Yes, Speaker." She turned and walked out of the alcove as slow as she dared, and breathed in the misty air with ferocity once she was gone from that room. Never had she been more thankful for clear air in her life.

* * *

He sat down roughly in the chair and growled, jaw clenched tightly. He barely resisted the urge to throw his glass against the stone wall, but set it down in favor of filling it up again. He was a fool, may Sithis curse him a thousand ways.

It was folly bringing her here, he had always known that. But the coin in his pocket, heavier than it should be, weighed against his better senses.

He couldn't get his father's body out of his mind, no matter how many other deaths piled themselves on top. When Galen had stilled and gone cold, Terenus had seen the aftermath of the storm inside his stomach. The damage it had done, the ruthless pain the sorceress had caused…

It was a beautiful, haunting kill.

Not like _his_ first kill. The Nursemaid's body had been clumsily strung up from the rafters, to hide the strangle marks on her neck. It had been a gods-send too, that the city guard bought the forged suicide note.

He had hated her, but it hadn't been the elaborate, all consuming, body rending hate that filled the fifteen year old form of Monet Rienne. He'd been the one to lock the windows of course, and he'd been lucky she hadn't had the slightest notion of how to pick a lock. He chuckled. "She still doesn't." His murmur held too much warmth when it met his ears. He was not supposed to be _warm_. He was a Speaker, the manifestation of Sithis' spoken word!

And that, _that_ was the trouble with her. He told himself that he had tracked her down because she was interesting, because she possessed skills that the Brotherhood coveted.

He needed to continue being _interested_ in her, nothing more.

He froze as the wine touched his lips. The flavor of sweet cherry mixed with the sour musk of alcohol in his palate. The glass lowered subconsciously.

Deep, dark red, like the subtle calm of her mouth. Cherry, like the reddish tint to her dark hair. Rich, like the hazel of her eyes.

She had enchanted him when he was younger, with her poise and cold hatred, and the spring years of his life had painted her like a flower.

He let out a breath and shook his head, hopeless to the battle strung up inside his bones. Only now did he know that she was nothing like the limp petals of a _plant_. No, she was like vintage wine.

The glass shattered in his grip, sending red droplets along his skin. They pooled in his palm and dripped to the floor, and with silver eyes, he watched them fall.

* * *

It _was_ beautiful. Amber with little veins of gold…it shimmered with life. She had no trouble slitting a throat, but this gave her pause. It was a kwama. A giant insect. She didn't really like bugs, so why did this bother her?

Maybe it was because it was helpless, and because it was thousands of lives, not just one. At any rate, he'd ordered her to destroy it.

But did she have to?

She could merely mention that it was surrounded by guards. Or that the Overseer was arriving and she wanted to be gone before he came. She sighed. But he'd know. He'd read her like a book. It would probably get around the Sanctuary too, one way or another. Then, in Venom's journals, deep in the pages marked with her name, he would write: 'Weakness—loves kwamas.'

She grabbed a rock, held it above the fleshy shell, and dropped it. With a sickening squelch, the shell broke and fluid rolled out like melting moon-sugar-cane.

Thérèse grimaced and stepped away into the shadows, hoping Sithis didn't mind bugs. She'd already cased the route to the target, and studied the movements of the guards. There was a moment where Daynil was very alone, and she would make her kill then.

 _Dark Elf nobles are not fond of parties that end with relentless vomiting._

She caught her breath and froze at the remembrance of his voice in her head. All the way from the Sanctuary, he had been haunting her. That dark, serious voice. His breath that smelled of cherries…his lips red with wine.

She narrowed her eyes and would have cursed herself, was she not hiding in a barrel waiting for a warden to pass by. She needed to get the Speaker out of her head.

It was just the way he had been acting….it was strange. And the wine? He had remembered that all these years too? Why bother with her? Why now?

She crept along the wall and into the shadowy alcove, and the cook was in sight. She pulled out a throwing dagger and poured her vial of poison onto it. Better make this count.

She frowned, confused at how much she wanted to complete Terenus' challenges. It didn't matter, did it? But…she wanted to make him proud, she knew that. The trouble was, she didn't know why.

She thought of him, leaning back in his chair, throwing off his hood…his hair was already half grey, and he was only a year older than her.

"You!" A voice hissed. Dread and horror clutched her.

Daynil had seen her. The spry Dunmer cook threw a rock straight at her, and she tried to roll out of the way. It clipped her head and sent the world reeling. The poison dagger clattered somewhere on the concrete.

The cook lunged with a knife, and Thérèse rolled, and rolled again, trying to escape its edge. Still dazed, she tried to grasp the cooking knife. She didn't dare try to feel for the poisoned dagger on the ground, lest she cut herself with it.

She caught the Dunmer's wrist, and wrenched at it with all of her might. She felt the bone twist out of place, and the cook gave a hollow gasp of pain.

Her pocket. In her pocket she still had a second vial of poison.

She fought to hold back a scream as the cook bit down hard on her neck, but she knew it was her chance.

She grabbed either side of the cook's mouth and pressed hard, forcing her jaw open. The second vial of poison was already in her hand. She shoved it in the open mouth and closed her jaws down, hard.

Muffled sounds of breaking glass met with muffled screams, and it was all Thérèse could do to hold her down and keep her from making too much noise until she finally stilled.

Either the guards had heard her, or they hadn't. Regardless, she had to make it out of there quick.

"The overseer should be here soon, a few minutes." Came the voice of a guard.

Thérèse saw them coming from the shadows, and she darted into the dark corridor, hoping against all hopes that she could make it to the mouth of the tunnel before the second guard made his rounds.

Just barely. She dove into a barrel as lithely as she could, and waited for his footsteps to pass. When they did, she curled out of the container, and made it to the tunnel entrance.

As she snuck away behind some boulders, she heard the sound of horse hooves.

"Overseer, we're so glad you arrived safely."

Despite her aching head and bleeding neck, she smiled.

* * *

She made her way to his room first, expecting him to be there. Only, he wasn't. On the table was the bottle of wine, still uncorked, and on the floor was a broken glass.

Her forehead creased as she stepped towards it. She crouched and reached out a finger to touch the broken glass, and it came away with a droplet of rosy wine.

"Have you dispatched your victim, Initiate?"

She spun around, cheeks warming even against her will. She stood on legs far more unstable than she would have liked. "The target has been eliminated, Speaker." She pushed out despite herself.

His eyes flickered from the broken glass to her face, and his lips formed a thin line. "Well done. What about the challenges that I posed for you?"

The egg, the poison, the stealth, and the speed. "Yes, I completed all of them." Just barely, and not thanks to him…But it wasn't _his_ fault she'd been too distracted by the thought of him to complete her kill cleanly.

"Performed with all the care befitting the Night Mother's sacred work. Your devotion to this task has not been overlooked." He stepped forward, and his eyes trailed down to her neck. He raised a hand towards her.

Unwittingly, she took a step back. It was enough to make her want to snap at herself. She prided herself at keeping calm, staying reserved, staying collected. Yet today she couldn't do anything without letting herself get caught off guard.

His eyes flickered up to her face, as if to gage whether or not he could safely continue his advance. His fingers rested briefly on the curve of her neck, where the cook had bitten her. When his fingers left her skin, where they'd rested still tingled slightly. "The kill didn't go as cleanly as you'd hoped, Initiate?"

She hated the question in that voice, hated the insinuation. But it was true, wasn't it? She hadn't set her mind to the task. What was she doing, letting her emotions get the better of her?

She sighed. "No, it didn't, Speaker."

He lifted his chin and regarded her though intense eyes. "No matter. You did well today. Get that cleaned up before it festers."

Inside, she was relieved that he hadn't said something worse. "Thank you." She stepped out of the room and squared her shoulders, setting out for her portion of the bunkroom.

The only one there was Mirabelle, and her crystal eyes snapped to her as soon as she entered.

"Ah, my dear Monet, what's gotten your face so red?" She asked, voice smooth and low.

Thérèse pulled a robe out from her drawers and turned to fix her friend with a frown. "What do you mean, Mirabelle?"

The enchantress just fixed her with heavy eyes. "You're flushed. Don't make me jealous now. I might think there's someone else." She winked, and the older woman just smiled.

"Must be arterial spray." She shrugged, taking a page out of Elam's book. "I'm going to go get washed up."

"Want me to join you?" Mirabelle joked, giving another wink.

"No, thank you." Thérèse laughed, turning the corner.

She could just make out Mirabelle's reply, "You're loss," as she walked away. It was good that she was getting over Cimbar's death, at least on the outside.

Was she right though? Were her cheeks flushed? If anyone could spot that sort of thing, it was Mirabelle. Today had just been…strange. She'd probably had too much wine.

The bathing pools were made out of several underwater springs that seeped up from below, and the cavern was dark and only lit by a few candles in the corners.

"I wont look if you don't." Chuckled Elam as he sauntered by, wearing only a towel around his waist. Moments later, she heard a splash at the left corner of the room.

She sighed, but decided Elam was no harm. She took the opposite corner, and was pleased by the darkness that encircled her.

"Back from a contract?" He asked, voice disembodied in the darkness. "I saw the Speaker lure you into his lair."

It felt good to get the grime out of her hair and off of her skin, but her neck stung terribly as the hot water touched it. "Yes, I had to kill a crazy cook and destroy a kwama queen egg."

"Now _that_ sounds like a story." He said dryly. "But kwama queen eggs are immensely valuable. Who wanted you to destroy it?"

With gentle fingers she washed the dried blood away from her wound, but the grooves in her skin made her queasy. They were the grooves of Dunmer teeth. "Speaker Terenus." She replied, her voice tinged with pain.

"You all in one piece over there?" He asked.

She laughed, though she still hurt. "Yeah. As I said, the cook was crazy. She bit me."

He let out a low whistle. "How'd you off her?"

Thérèse dunked her head under the warm water to rinse off her hair. "Well, I was trying to catch her with a poisoned throwing knife, but she spotted me. I had to shove a whole vial of poison in her mouth, in close quarters."

He laughed. "Brutal. Well, I'd say that was payback for the bite, wouldn't you?" There was some loud splashing, indicating he was getting out of the pool. "Better heal that wound up after you wash it." He said, voice moving further away. When he reached the light of the corridor, she could make out his retreating form.

Now the dark, warm waters were her own, and she sank down into them, closing her eyes against the world. The events of the day passed through her mind, and one by one, she noted them and folded them away. With each passing moment, her shoulders grew more and more limp, and her muscles unwound their stresses.

The warm glow of restoration magic covered her shoulder, and then the bump on her head, knitting the swollen flesh back together. With the pain mostly gone, she felt truly relaxed.

She'd been imagining it, hadn't she? The tension between her and the Speaker was just normal awkwardness, that's all. She smiled at the simple revelation. Tomorrow would be more normal, and so would the next day.

But then, in the dark, a thought occurred to her. It was just a tiny, unimportant question, but it bothered her all the same.

How could Speaker simply drop his drink? Had the broken wine glass been an accident at all?

"What else could it be?" She murmured to herself. The hollow cavern had no answer for her.


	8. Bon Anniversaire

_**Hey people! Finally got this chapter edited and ready for posting! Just started college so I can guarantee that my posting will be backlogged, but I'll keep working on it! Thanks everyone!**_

It was the third of Hearthfire, and Thérèse was not in a great mood. It wasn't for any particular reason, except for the fact that it was the day that she was born, thirty-one years ago. She grabbed an apple from the mess hall and avoided breakfast with everyone else, walking past Astara's office and into the hall.

She was strolling by a bench when she saw a book with silver letters on the front. The Five Tenents. Venom had told her to read them, hadn't he?

She sat on the bench longways, with her back against one of the arms, and flipped open the book.

 _The Five Tenents—Annotated version of the Dark Brotherhood's honorable code._

She had to smile at the irony. She read on, taking a bite of her apple.

 _With annotations by Speaker Terenus_

 _Brothers and Sisters, we are predators, but we are not animals. We bow to no law of nation or alliance, but we have rules and morals. Break or neglect to follow these Tenets at your own peril—expulsion from the Brotherhood is the least of the punishments awaiting such reprehensible traitors._

 _Obey these Five Tenets and your devotion shall never come into question._

"Reprehensible." She murmured absently. It was a nice word.

 **Tenet 1. Never dishonor the Night Mother. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.**

 _Revere the Night Mother, for our Unholy Matron serves as the source of our contracts, the life-blood of the Brotherhood._

 **Tenet 2. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.**

 _We thrive in the shadows. To cast light on those shadows is a blasphemy before Sithis and the Night Mother._

 **Tenet 3. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.**

 _To listen and to obey. The very first lesson taught to every member of the Brotherhood._

 **Tenet 4. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.**

 _To steal from a Brother or Sister is to steal from the Night Mother. Sithis hates such thieves._

 **Tenet 5. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. To do so is to invoke the Wrath of Sithis.**

 _We are family, and family doesn't murder family. Unless a member has been cast out, his or her life is as sacred as your own._

 _Know that it is not your kin who will come to judge you should you fail to uphold this compact. Remember the story of the wraith, told to every new initiate. This is more than mere fable. The Wrath of Sithis is real, and he sends his wraith to punish any Brother or Sister who breaks the Tenets._

The last paragraph sent a chill through her bones. No wonder no one broke the Tenets.

"Good morning, Initiate."

Thérèse blinked and looked up from the book. "Oh, hello Terenus." She smiled. "How are you?"

He raised a brow. "Passable." A pause. "And how are you?"

She wanted to smile, she wanted to say she was just fine, but she didn't really feel like it. Not today. She shrugged. "Ready for another contract."

His lips pulled up in a dark smile. "That is all the Night Mother asks of any of us, dear sister."

She sighed as he walked away and closed the book. Well, she ought to see what Elam had for her today. Pushing off of the chair, she winced as her muscles strained. Her body was still getting used to the new movements prolonged assassinating had in store.

"Initiate!" Came Kor's call, accompanied by pounding footsteps. Thérèse inwardly cringed, but she stopped anyway. Regardless of whether or not she wanted to socialize, Kor was her brother, and he was always kind to her. She turned to face him, and frowned when she saw his face was full of worry.

"What's wrong?"

He caught his breath. "It's Hildegarde. She never came back after she went to say a prayer for Tanek."

The name paused her heart for an uncomfortable millisecond. That sweet girl…her chest tightened curiously. "How long has she been gone?"

He blinked and clenched his jaw. "Ah, after Tanek was injured. After you came back. She said she'd talked to you and was going to go pray that Tanek would be okay. I-I haven't seen her since." He rubbed his face with a hand. "No one has! It's not like Hilde to just disappear without saying a word to me or Astara."

Suddenly, surprisingly, her fists clenched and her heart beat faster, to an unnerving crescendo. What if Hilde was dead? What if she'd transformed by accident and gone wild? What if the Black Dragon..."Where does Hildegarde usually go to pray?"

"She loves temples, but the trouble in Knatch has made her avoid the big Cathedral. Lately she's been visiting the Great Chapel of Dibella in Anvil. I think the rituals soothe her, you understand?" Thérèse nodded, though only to keep him talking. She didn't really understand. "I-I'm going to Anvil to try to find her. It would mean a lot if you'd help me. I know she likes you…"

Thérèse smiled, for her brother and for herself, and put a comforting hand on Kor's shoulder. "Of course I'll help you find Hildegarde."

His shoulders slumped, and he looked relieved. "Thank you, Sister." He sighed. "I want to walk to Anvil alone, and clear my head. I'll meet you in the Chapel. Hopefully, we'll find Hilde curled up and sleeping under Dibella's statue." Somehow, she didn't think it would be that easy.

Thérèse walked back to her room to change out of her armor and into some civilian clothes. To her knowledge, it was hot out. At least, she'd heard Mirabelle grouching about it when she'd slipped in the mess to retrieve her breakfast. She slipped on a billowy tunic and some light breeches.

Who would want to hurt Hildegarde? If it was that Black Dragon again…she had said she needed another member of the Brotherhood for interrogation. Hilde was loyal, but pain could persuade quite well…

She was heading to the door when a voice stopped her. "Going out?" Elam had leaned out of his room. "You don't look like you're on a contract."

Thérèse raised a brow. "That would be the point of fitting in, wouldn't it? No, I'm just helping Kor with something in Anvil."

Elam sighed. "It's Hildegarde, isn't it. Sweet girl, hard to believe she could rip your throat out with a set of canines, isn't it?" He shrugged. "Try to find her, Initiate. I'd hate for another one of our number to be picked off. On that note, take care of yourself, too."

Thérèse let herself smile minutely. "I mostly do."

She stepped into the fresh air and felt immediately withered by the heat of it all. She'd never been so grateful for the cool stone of the underground Sanctuary.

When she finally did make it to Anvil, she was overheated, sweaty, and in general bad temper. If someone had hurt Hilde, she knew she would rip them apart just like a wild wolf. No one had the right to take such a sweet thing from the world.

She stepped into the relatively cool Chapel and let out a breath. Someone stepped up to her, and it took her a second to realize it was Kor, since he had switched out his Brotherhood ensemble for hide armor. His crystal eyes flashed, with both frustration, discomfort, and anger-all hiding fear. "I know, it's bloody hot out there today." He looked towards the statue. "It looks like Hilde isn't here. Shor's bones, if something happens to her, I don't know what I'll do…"

Thérèse stepped up to him and put a hand on his arm. "We'll find her Kor, I promise."

He sighed. "She takes contracts like the rest of us…she can be gone for a long time sometimes…but not telling us where she's going? No. I'm just worried with how things are….the world is upside down…the hunters becoming the hunted…"

She squeezed his arm to grab his attention. "Kor, worrying about her will not help her. Right now, we need to look for her. What do you want me to do?"

Kor took a steadying breath, then nodded. "Right, right…why don't we split up here and ask around the temple if they've seen her?"

Thérèse nodded. "I'll get the right half." She stepped down into the main section of the Chapel.

She questioned a nice Redguard, a peeved writer, and a High Elf with a story about a Wood Elf that ate flowers, but none of them knew anything. She was just beginning to feel Kor's frustration.

"Psst. Over here." It was an Imperial woman, tall and thin, holding her bony hands together with an impressive combination of nervousness and snobbery. Thérèse stepped over to her, raising a brow. " _Your_ interest in this young Nord has piqued _my_ interest." She crossed her arms. "Tell me what you know and I'll tell you what I saw."

Thérèse could have sworn she felt the teasing mist of a half materializing Blade of Woe in the hand behind her back. If she _wanted_ to, she could flay this woman alive until she had the information, but she didn't _need_ to. "She's a friend who's gone missing. I'm trying to find her."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the sparse information, then sighed. "I saw a young Nord with a flower in her hair talking to Chanter Nemus, over by the Akatosh shrine." So Akatosh _was_ involved…and perhaps the Black Dragon was, too. "I remember because it was so odd. He was whispering in her ear and standing much too close for a man who wasn't her father or her lover."

Thérèse pursed her lips, anger already hastening through her veins. "Could you hear what he was saying?"

"Oh believe me, I tried!" Gasped the woman. "When they were finished, the poor young woman had tears streaming down her face. She ran out of the Chapel as the Chanter looked on. He had a self-satisfied smile on his face." Her eyes widened conspiratorially. "Do you think he said something Improper?"

Thérèse clenched her jaw. "Well, I certainly wouldn't put it past one of the Chanters to take advantage of their position. If you want something to gossip about, you'd do well to spread that around." It was petty, but how else should she feel?

"I knew the Chanter was up to no good! Sneaking around, meeting with mysterious young Nords with flowers in their hair. It's simply scandalous!" She gained a pensive look. "Don't worry, I'll leave your friend out of this when I tell my story at the tavern tonight."

Thérèse fixed the woman with a cold stare. "I'm certain you will." Without staying to gage her expression, she turned and headed back to Kor.

If the situation had been different, the exasperation in his features would have been comical. "Troll's blood, can these people gossip! They're worse than the Rat Master's informants, and he pays them to dredge up secrets." He sighed. "Hilde was here, but no one could say where she went or when. Tell me you had better luck, Initiate."

She was glad she could meet his hopeful eyes with information. "A woman saw Hilde speaking with Chanter Nemus before she fled in tears."

His eyes widened. "A Chanter spoke with Hilde? That's not what I wanted to hear…" He ran a hand through his mane. "Understand, Hilde isn't like us. She grew up in the wild. The idea of being civilized is really new to her. And she still feels guilty about the wolf that's inside her."

Thérèse knew what it was like to feel tarnished and wrecked, and she knew what it was to feel alone. But Hilde wasn't alone, she had her family. "You think the Chanter said something to upset her?"

He sighed. "It certainly sounds that way to me. It doesn't take much to turn her guilt about what she's done as a wolf into self loathing. I'm constantly trying to get her to change her feelings on the matter, but her beliefs run deep."

Poor girl…she didn't deserve to think badly of herself. Maybe if she helped try to change her mind too, things would get better. "Any idea where she'd go in such a state of mind?"

His face turned grim. "Back to where it all began. Back to Skyrim." He headed towards the door. "I'll check at the docks to see if she tried to secure passage on a ship. You go talk to the caravan master. Hopefully one of us will discover which route she took to go back to where the wolf was born."

Thérèse nodded, but doubted that Hildegarde had taken a ship. A sea route to Skyrim would take far longer than a day long ride in a caravan. "I'll talk to the caravan master."

Kor nodded and hurried out, into the harsh sun. Thérèse sighed and did the same. The heat was oppressive, but Hilde was more important.

The caravan master was a Regaurd woman with many piercings. When she saw her approaching, she started speaking. "Next caravan will be ready to leave shortly. If that interests you, find a place nearby to sit for a spell and I'll call you when we're ready."

Thérèse smiled, but shook her head. "I'm not here for passage, I'm looking for a young Nord woman. She wears a flower in her hair."

The caravan master narrowed her eyes. "Well, isn't that interesting. You're the second menacing stranger that's asked me about a Nord who may or may not have fled in tears." She snorted. "Even if I had seen this woman, what makes you think I'd tell you anything?"

Well, it was surprising how many people, in Cyrodiil and High Rock, would trust you right off the dock. This was refreshing, if not frustrating. "I appreciate what you're doing for her, but I'm just trying to help her. Her brother is worried about her." She smiled. "Her family is worried about her."

The woman wouldn't relent. "Right. Her family. The way that young woman was crying, you'd think Molag Bal himself was after her. Or someone like you. If I had helped the Nord—and I'm not saying I did—you'd have to do a lot better than that to get me to tell you anything."

Thérèse sighed. While she was glad this stranger had helped deflect the previous person from finding Hilde, it was doing her no benefit now. "How can I convince you I'm trying to help her?" At the woman's hard stare, she just shook her head. "Alright then, can you at least tell me if it was Skyrim you took her to?"

"Sister!" Came Kor's frantic call. Thérèse turned and frowned into the sun to see his approach. He'd ran, by Sheogorath he'd ran! In the sun, from the docks all the way to here. "At the docks I heard some people talking about the Silver Dawn. They've been asking around." At her blank stare, he added, "Werewolf hunters!"

"Damn." Thérèse cursed.

He nodded. "Damn is the right word, Initiate. The news about the Silver Dawn has me even more worried for her. We have to hurry!" He turned to the caravan master, hands pressed together in supplication. "Please tell me you've seen my Hilde, you have to help us find her."

The Redguard sighed and turned to Thérèse. "Sorry I gave you the run-around, but I was just trying to protect my passenger. Those Silver Dawn ruffians came around asking about her right before you did. I didn't say a word to them, either. Just let me know when you're ready to go to Skyrim."

Kor stepped forward. "Now!"

She nodded grimly. "Hop right in."

Kor jumped up into the back, helping Thérèse up with a mighty hand. He sat, having to bend his neck to avoid his head hitting the cover of the caravan. "They're going to kill her." He whispered, eyes wide with fear.

Thérèse frowned and put her hand on his, squeezing it comfortingly. "No, Kor. Not if we reach her first."

* * *

The ride up to Skyrim was about sixteen hours long, and was fairly uneventful. It was pleasing, though, how the air cooled as they went farther north. Thérèse slept a bit, but Kor woke her when they arrived.

"Come on." He jumped out of the caravan, and she followed. "We will have to track her. We'll split up, to cover more ground. Those Silver Dawn milk-drinkers ought to be around here too, be on your guard."

It looked to be the early hours of the morning, when the sunlight seemed to shine in pastels and the air was crisp and invigorating. She could see her breath in the air.

Dropping into a crouch, she started following a trail of broken twigs, twisted ferns and, yes, picked flowers. Thérèse smiled at the last one.

Soon though, Silver Dawn began to appear through the bushes. She caught most of them unawares, using the Blade of Woe to silence them. A few times, she had to resort to magick, and she summoned a clannfear to follow her as they got closer to a large encampment. Perhaps they were holding Hilde there?

Thérèse creeped into the camp, keeping the soldiers around the fire in the corner of her awareness. She searched the tent, but it was empty, along with the cages.

"Hey!" Her shoulders shrunk and she dredged up some lightning with distaste. "I just want to find my friend!" She hissed into the air, zapping everyone who got too close with a bolt of lighting. The foot soldiers fell instantly, but the lieutenant was harder to beat.

She stepped into the clearing with a large warhammer, and Thérèse commanded her clannfear to keep her busy. Many times, she got very close to smashing her with that hammer, but Thérèse was quick in these breathable clothes. Eventually, they silenced the commander, and a twig snap made the sorceress turn in that direction.

The man held up his arms. "Please, don't hurt me! I heard some of them say that the werewolf went that way!" He pointed north, and Thérèse nodded.

 _Please_ let her be alive. She couldn't even entertain the possibility that they would be too late. What would she do? What would Kor do?

After slipping carefully down a steep drop, Thérèse took care of some wolves on the way through Hildegard's tracks. She froze as she heard another voice.

"Whoa, Hildegarde. It's me, it's Kor. Brother, remember? Come on, calm down, everything's going to be okay."

Thérèse peeked out of some fronds to see a large werewolf towering over Kor. It's limbs shuddered, and slowly it shrank onto the ground, past tall grass that she could't see over. Kor dropped to his knees, pulling something out of his bag. When Hildegarde rose, she had a gray wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

Thérèse stepped out of her hiding place and climbed some rocks to get to where her friends were. "Hey, Hildegarde."

The girl turned, dirty cheeks wet with tears. "Thérèse…" she murmured. "You came to find me, too?"

Was she surprised that she'd cared enough to come too, or feeling guilty about the whole event? Perhaps it was a little of both, and it shouldn't have been either. Thérèse's heart softened, and she reached forward to brush a tear from her face. "Of course, Hilde."

"Here, I brought some clothes for you, Hilde." Said Kor, holding out a wad of cotton apparel.

Hildegarde sniffed and took it, and Kor and Thérèse turned to give her some privacy. "You really are a good tracker, Kor, you found her before me. I had the good sense to go rummaging around in a Silver Dawn camp, too."

He laughed, eyes bright once again. "I'm just glad Hilde is safe."

She smiled. "That makes two of us."

The girl stepped past them, face stoic and unreadable, looking at Thérèse. "I did not mean to cause so much trouble. I never meant to put you or Kor in harm's way."

Thérèse nodded. "That's okay. But I'm curious, why didn't you return to the Sanctuary?"

She wrapped her arms around herself. "I meant to. But the Chanter told me I had to flee. He said my past and my wild nature were going to cause the people I love to come to harm. He said the deaths of our Brothers and Sisters were my fault—and it was going to get worse if I remained."

Thérèse's eyebrows pulled together in sympathy. Oh, poor girl… "Chanter Nemus told you all of that? He knows you're in the Brotherhood?"

Hildegarde's face reddened. "The Chanter sings to the Divines. He speaks for Akatosh! I had to tell him things. About me. About the family." Briefly, Thérèse thought back to the Tenets, but shoved that out of her mind. "It happened before. I was a danger to my wolf clan. Now, I'm a danger to Kor. To you and the others. You're all better off without me."

Thérèse exchanged a worried glance with Kor. "Sweetheart, Chanter Nemus deceived you. He sent the Silver Dawn here to kill you."

Hildegarde's face grew paler, and her eyes widened. "No! Why would the Chanter do that? He told me to return to my old life, to the wilderness. He said I'd be safe, that no one else would get hurt if I left." Her voices weakened as her protests grew empty. "He promised that Akatosh would show me the way."

Thérèse shook her head and stepped forward, drawing the small Nord into a hug, and placing one of her hands on the young girl's head. "Hilde, we're family. We protect each other, and we're stronger together."

She hugged her arms around the older woman, sniffing. "You…you really mean that? Even after I abandoned the family, you still want me around?"

Thérèse nodded. "Of course, Hilde. Why wouldn't I want such a beautiful, kind, and gentle young woman near me?"

She sniffed again and pulled away, wiping tears from her eyes. "Thank you, Thérèse. I-I'm sorry I caused so much trouble. I let my fear allow the Chanter to deceive me. That's not going to happen again. Kor and I, we'll handle things, together."

Thérèse smiled and looked to Kor. "Well, let's get back to the Gold Coast then."

Kor held back and turned to Thérèse. "Thank you for saying such kind words to Hilde. I know she's taken them to heart." He smiled and slapped her rather painfully on her back. "You did good, Initiate. I'm glad you're one of us now."

The sorceress nodded, feeling warmth seep into her heart. "Thanks, Kor. When we get back, you'll make sure she gets to the Sanctuary safely?"

He nodded, then winced. "I'm not eager to see Astara. She won't be pleased when she hears about this." He sighed. "I wish I knew what Chanter Nemus hoped to accomplish. Someone needs to stick a fork in him and call him done."

They all piled into the caravan and set out for home, Hildegarde resting her head on Kor's shoulder. She fell asleep quickly, as did her brother. He hadn't slept at all on the way there.

The ride back seemed to pass more quickly, and Thérèse dozed a bit.

She had plenty of time, however, to address her feelings about Hildegarde. The young girl inspired a paragon of protection within her. It seemed so warm and so old, even though it was a relatively new feeling. She was young, and vulnerable, and Thérèse just wanted to keep her safe, and keep her from harm. Was that what it felt like to feel like a mother? Warmth and speed and a fullness of spirit, vital and invigorating? It was a fierce, predatory need to ensure that someone grew behind loving hearts and warm halls. Though it could be detrimental in some ways, she liked it, and she put that feeling on a shelf in her heart, on display. A new facet of herself.

When they returned to Anvil, they all piled out of the caravan stiffly. The sun was just setting, sending a warm glow all over the landscape. The heat of the day had waned to give way to a pleasant, incubating temperature.

Hildegarde sighed and turned to her. "Now that it's all over, I feel like a fool for listening to the Chanter. I might have to pay him a visit one of these nights and even the score." Her face hardened into a scowl.

Thérèse put a hand on her shoulder, face grim. "I'll handle the Chanter. Where can I find him?"

"You'd do that, for me? I…thank you." She smiled brightly. "Chanter Nemus tends to the Akatosh shrine in the Chapel of Dibella. He spends a lot of time in the chapel office when he isn't lying to foolish young women. Make him feel pain before you kill him, all right?"

Thérèse knew that feeling, of wanting revenge. Of wanting to hear the screams of the person who wronged you as life leaves their limbs. "Of course. Now go on home, Hilde, get some proper rest." She nodded, and Kor lead her up the path to the road.

Thérèse sighed. Though her muscles ached from the last…however long it had been, she knew she needed to exact revenge on the Chanter for what he'd done.

She walked up to the chapel, and gazed along it's stony exterior. Night was falling, but it was still too warm for comfort. Placing one smooth hand of the varnished wood, she pushed the door open. How powerful was Dibella, when her own doors would not hold fast against a murderer?

* * *

Grimy with the day's sweat and aching from fatigue, Thérèse walked up to a very cross looking Astara.

"I understand I have you to thank for Hildegarde's safe return." She said grimly. "Are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to torture Kor until he sings?"

Thérèse inwardly winced, but steeled herself enough to look calm and confident. "Chanter Nemus tricked Hildegarde, and I killed him for it. It won't happen again."

Astara narrowed her eyes, then nodded tersely. "I hope you're right. But why do the Akatosh priests seem to be moving against us? First the Sermonizers, now this. Are they trying to take advantage of our recent setbacks or is there something more going on here?" She waved away her suspicions for the moment and sighed. "At least Hildegarde is safe now. Get some rest, Initiate."

Thérèse nodded and headed back to the bunkroom with as much excitement she could conjure. It was good that Astara wasn't going to punish them, anyway. After the events of the past two days, she was tired, down to her very bones. She sat down on her bed, feeling every sore muscle twinge.

"Someone left you a present." Said Mirabelle, raising a brow. "On your pillow, there."

Thérèse frowned and turned her head. It was a wine bottle, with a peeling label. But she didn't need to read the label to know what kind of wine it was. There was a note attached, and she untied it and folded it open.

 _Bon Anniversaire_

 _Want to share a glass?_

The one person in all of Tamriel who she thought wouldn't care about her birthday was the only person in all of Tamriel that still remembered when it was. And apparently, he did care, at least a little.

But the Speaker? Getting her a birthday present? Perhaps it was a front for another complicated contract. As soon as she thought it, she knew it must be true. Well, she would get some of her favorite wine along with it, so what did she have to complain about? She didn't have to do the contract today, and some wine would loosen her stiff muscles.

She hid a smile and grabbed the bottle, standing up.

"Well, who is it?" Asked Mirabelle, curiosity written all over her fair features.

Thérèse smiled demurely. "A secret admirer." She inwardly laughed at Mirabelle's sound of disappointment. Then, she looked down at herself.

She was still in her day clothes, all caked in blood and mud. She frowned. Rummaging around in her trunk, she found a clean set of blue linen clothes, and she quickly changed into them. Mirabelle was watching her the whole time. "It _is_ serious. You're changing for him!"

Thérèse laughed. "I just don't want to enjoy nice wine in blood-soaked clothes, Mirabelle."

Mirabelle just sighed. "If you say so, but I see that gleam in your eye…If you come back here before morning, I'll be disappointed in you."

Thérèse could feel her cheeks start to warm at the thought of…that. "I will most definitely be back by morning."

"Oh, you don't know how to have fun." She sighed, rolling onto her back and picking up her book again.

Thérèse shook her head and took the bottle with her, heading towards the waterfall room first. She liked how the spray would fall on her, leaving her a little wet.

He was sitting in an armchair, flicking the coin up into the air. "Ah, so you did come." He looked up at her, silver eyes glinting. "I wasn't sure you would."

Thérèse smiled. "I'm just returning the favor." It was strange, though, how he'd thought of her. Perhaps he was different than what he projected, but it was hard for her to imagine the dark-robed man in front of her writing a birthday note. "I'm not quite sure where you get bottles of these."

"I have my sources." He murmured, watching her sit. "Your anniversary of life...no wonder you were bothered this morning."

She raised a brow, setting the bottle on the table next to them. "I was bothered?" How had he noticed that? They'd said two sentences to each other.

He chuckled. "Of course you were." His lips pressed together and he stood to uncork and pour the wine. "You look very tired."

She nodded. "Yes, and sore. My head is splitting, I'm worried for Hilde…" She paused, sensing somehow that the admission of feeling was unwelcome, but the curves of his back made no indication that he had taken any offense.

He nodded, sitting down again, regarding her with silent eyes. "I was meaning to ask you, Initiate, about the aftermath of your battle with the Sermonizer. You seem to be taking her death well."

Thérèse narrowed her eyes and took the offered glass. Why on Nirn did he want to know? Was this some sort of test? Was Astara worried about her state of mind? It was her own personal matter. She'd done her duties with skill and precision. "With all due respect, Speaker, why do you…care?" She'd almost said 'give a damn.' Maybe she was a little on edge about the subject, but it wasn't affecting her efficiency.

He regarded her silently for a long moment, and she took a drink of her wine to hide her…was it embarrassment? No, it wasn't that. Why was he staring at her so intently? This seemed like an out of place exchange. She shifted in her chair slightly, posture becoming even more rigid. "If you were anyone else," he began, "I'd say I was simply worried about the performance of my Dark Brothers and Sisters." He looked down into his glass. "But you're not everyone else, Initiate." What on Nirn did that even mean? The wine, the uncharacteristic softness in his grim features... The whites of his eyes won back her attention, as they flicked up from observing the liquid in his cup. "We both know what tends to drive you to that excessive cruelty."

Was he implying that she didn't have a hold on her emotions? That she was unstable? Her grip tightened on her wine glass. Suddenly, everything seemed tight. Her arms were tensed, her legs were tense…She let out a breath and endeavored to relax. "I'm fine, Speaker. I'm not a danger to anyone here."

His lip quirked upwards dispassionately. "On the contrary, you are quite dangerous. I'm dangerous. Everyone in this Sanctuary kills when they're ordered to." His silver eyes burned chillingly. Thérèse fought the urge to bury her head in her hands. What was he trying to get at? "I'm not worried about you hurting anyone." His voice was softer, like the brush of a raven's feather. She blinked and looked up at him, forehead creased. If he wasn't worried about that, then…

Her jaw clenched and some red emotion remained deep in her skull, an itch to be scratched. She wasn't supposed to be playing guessing games at this time of night. "By the Eight, it's starting to sound like you actually _care_ about me." Her voice held a bitter note, and she expected him to laugh, to shrug it off. This whole conversation didn't make any sense.

Indeed he did laugh, but it was a tense, forced chuckle. It alarmed her, it froze her to her chair. Her eyes slipped down to his fingers, gripping his wine glass, white with tension.

Her pulse quickened. What...? Shaking her head slightly, she tried to smile the awkwardness away, but she knew the gesture was just as manufactured as his laugh. "I talked with Hildegarde about the Grand Sermonizer, and she helped."

He nodded, taking another drink, out of the spell and thankful for it. "Good."

Gods above, what was happening here? "Well, I should probably go." She murmured, standing quickly.

"Monet." He said, standing as well. He frowned. "I mean, Thérèse." He clenched his jaw, and when he spoke next, it was a growl, " _Initiate_." He gestured to the half-empty wine bottle. "It's yours."

She looked at it. Dark glass, peeling label…staring back at her like it had when it was on her pillow, placed with care…She stepped forward and grabbed it, suppressing a shiver at how close the action brought her to him. When she straightened up, she caught his eyes. Somehow, she was stuck there for a moment. He should have been able to laugh more smoothy. To deceive her, to let whatever had been in the air pass with inconsequence. But he hadn't. Why?

His face, stoic now, was lined with worry, not time. Those wrinkles were caused by something deeper than the passage of years. That was what differed the most between him and his younger self. He hid it well.

She smiled, a gesture tinged with melancholy. When had they grown older? She felt nothing like a girl, and everything like an artifact. She poured wine into his empty glass, and when he glanced down and raised a brow, something made her laugh.

"You look like you need another glass." With nothing but the bottle in between them, she sighed and pursed her lips. "You remembered me. You sent the letter, and brought me here, to these people I'm starting to think of as my family. I never thanked you." She shrugged, smiling at the hopelessness of it all. "So thank you, Fasion."

She turned, and left.


	9. An Unsavory Past

_**So sorry for the very long wait! College happened, and finals, and homework. But I was inspired to write so here it is! On the plus side, I feel my writing has improved, so hopefully you like it! Enjoy!**_

 _ **Disclaimer: Still don't own anything other than Thérèse.**_

She'd had to bargain with the Matron to go on this little excursion. She'd been required to complete two Glenumbra contracts while she was there, and she'd just finished them, exhausted.

One had been a mage who'd accidentally poisoned someone, and the other had been a wife who cheated on her husband. Only now that she'd fulfilled her promise to Astara did she feel she could carry out her own personal quest.

The door to the Harborage closed behind her, and she smelled water, and plants, and must. It reminded her of the Sanctuary, except none of her family were here. It seemed so different now…the woman who walked in here months ago with a vague hint from an ethereal man seemed like a different person. Not a girl, not naive, but she had been less of what she was now. Like the beginning chapter of a story, the woman before had not yet found the plot of her life.

As she walked down to the open cavern, boots splashing in the water, she heard the twangy, out of tune playing of Lyris on a lute. Thérèse smiled to herself. How did The Prophet put up with that all of the time, his hearing being what it was? She sensed the man was closer to her then he was letting on, in a fatherly way. Lyris was the only company he had here, bad lute playing or no.

She walked into the light, and though the Prophet remained still, Lyris jumped up and smiled. "Vestige!" She put down her lute and hurried over to give her a Nord hug. She'd learned recently that Nord hugs are different than normal hugs. "It's been awhile. Come on, The Prophet has a lot to talk about." She led Thérèse to the fire where the old mage sat, face solemn.

He looked at her. White marbles were set deep into his wrinkled, spent face, weeded with careless stubble and lingering disappointment. "You're darker than you were last we saw each other, Vestige." He murmured, eyebrows knitting into a frown.

"What do you mean?" Asked Lyris, confused. The whole exchange would seem strange to her, wouldn't it?

But Thérèse knew exactly what he meant. She'd embraced the darkness. She'd embraced who she truly was. It had always been there, and even he could not ignore that.

After a moment, the Prophet waved a hand. "It matters not. What matters is that you are here. There are rumors of spies in the city of Daggerfall, agents of Mannimarco, but that kind of task requires a lighter touch than Lyris or I posses. Go now, question the citizens about anything out of the ordinary. Find these spies."

Thérèse sighed. She'd forgotten what it was like to take orders from people. At least people who weren't her Brotherhood superiors. The Prophet relied on her willingness, Astara did not. "Alright." She turned to go, but The Prophet's voice stopped her.

"And try not to shed too much blood on the way, Vestige."

* * *

"You have to be more careful next time." Growled Lyris, roughly cleaning the wound on Thérèse's head. "A little harder and your skull would be all over the floor of that spy's lair."

"He snuck up on me, I was busy talking to Tharn." It had been a surprise to talk to Abnar Tharn again, but it had only shown her how powerful Mannimarco really was. He held Cyrodiil in his hands. Well, some of it, anyways. She smiled.

"This orb is an artifact of some power, Vestige." Mused The Prophet. "A communication device of sorts." He frowned. "I'm sorry to drag you halfway across Tamriel for this, but I'm certain now that I can divine the location of Sai with the help of this artifact."

Thérèse pulled away from Lyris' painful ministrations. "Have you any further use for me, then?" She asked, a little more stiffly than she meant to. She was aching to get home, to the warm shores of the Gold Coast. She supposed it really _was_ her home, now.

The Prophet fixed her with a blank stare. "Not at the current moment, but I'd like to have a word with you in private." He didn't need to send any other signal than that. The Nord frowned in annoyance and crossed her arms. Her green eyes passed between the Prophet and the Vestige, and Thérèse was struck with the feeling that the warrior had just recalled the man's strange words from earlier. Perhaps she was giving them more thought now. Regardless, she turned from them and headed across the alcove, picking up her lute to tune it. "I know more that you might think I do, Vestige." He whispered roughly, leaning in. "You dabble with darkness greater than you know."

Thérèse clenched her jaw and stared right back at him, defiant. Did _he_ know the 'darkness?' "I have found a home, Prophet. I care not what deeds I do to belong, only that I _do_ belong, somewhere. I will fight Mannimarco if you wish. I will fulfill my 'destiny.' But I will not abandon my friends for a morality I see no purpose for." That being said, she turned her back and headed towards the entrance to the Harborage.

"Vestige, wait!" Called Lyris, splashing after her. Thérèse sighed and turned around, looking up at the tall woman.

"What is it, Lyris?"

The Nord stared down at her with intense eyes. "What was that all about?"

There was no way on Nirn she was going to attempt to explain it to Lyris.

Thérèse shrugged, trying to make the action nonchalant. "Just some unneeded advice."

Lyris locked her jaw and raised her brows. "Yeah, sure." She looked around, even though it was obviously just the two of them. "Look, you talked to Tharn…I still hate him. He's a backstabbing traitor…but did you get the sense that he was _completely_ loyal to Mannimarco?"

Was Lyris wanting to work with Tharn? To save him, even? It didn't sound like her. "What do you mean? How could we offer him more protection than Mannimarco?"

Lyris shrugged. "I don't know. But Tharn isn't stupid. He knows that Mannimarco will destroy him at some point. He helped us before. If he would again, it would be useful."

Thérèse nodded, vaguely seeing her point. "Well, when the time comes, we'll just have to see, won't we?"

Lyris nodded, and the sorceress didn't give her another chance to ask about what the Prophet had said to her, simply turning and sloshing back up the water filled tunnel. Pushing a hanging lichen out of the way, she frowned. She had caught the spy, and they were closer to finding Sahan, but she felt unsettled.

Thérèse trudged up the steep hill back up to Daggerfall, thoughts heavy. How did The Prophet presume to know her? He had saved her from Coldharbour, and she owed him a debt, but he had no power over what she did with her own two hands.

Still, his disappointment in her did chafe. She supposed she just had to weigh her options, and her new family was worth more than his opinion of her.

It was dark, and she needed to rest, so she rented a room at The Rosy Lion and deposited herself on the lumpy bed that was all hers for the night.

She sighed. High Rock had once been second nature to her. Since when did it become so foreign? Her head was aching from where that crazy Imperial spy had lobbed her, and she reached up a hand to heal it. It was a testament to how jumbled her thoughts were, that she hadn't done so already.

Her thoughts drifted to Hildegarde, safe and sound back at the Sanctuary. She hopped she was doing alright after her ordeal. Mirabelle, too. She was still a little…off, after Cimbar's death. She even missed Green-Venom-Tongue, and the way he wrote down everything people said in his thick tomes. Why did he do that, anyway? Of course, she was also looking forward to Elam's dry humor as she returned to announce her contracts were complete.

Who knows, perhaps when she returned she would ask for one of Terenus' Sacraments? For some reason, the praise from his lips sounded very desirable.

Crickets chirped outside her window, and a draft from the door brushed through the threadbare blankets. Both reminded her that she was not home. Still, the thoughts of her family seemed to keep her warmer, and she fell asleep with Hilde's sweet smile in her mind's eye.

* * *

The edge of a dagger teased the skin of her neck, and her eyes flew open, wide as a deer's. Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught in her throat.

The trespasser leaned in close, and she smelled cherries. "Letting your guard down, Initiate?" He whispered, breath in her ear. His voice, dark and silky, set her heart beating quicker than the knife had.

She blinked, letting herself relax as he pulled the dagger away. "I suppose, if that's what you call sleeping." She rolled over, into a ball. This had to be a dream….

Light flooded the room and she tried to blink it out of her eyes. He was lighting candles. "There's a boat leaving for Anvil in an hour. I've booked passage. I want you on it."

This wasn't even making sense. "What time is it?" She whispered. Her head still pounded from the wound she'd received, and her heart was still fluttering from his sudden closeness moments before.

"Early." Came his dark voice. "Get up, pack your things. You can sleep on the ship."

Finally wrestling sleep from her bones, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, feeling her curls drift down into her face. They tickled her cheeks and itched her skin. She reached for the nightstand for her metal hairband, and pushed her curls back into place. "Why now?" Was all she could say. It seemed so urgent, so strange.

He turned to her, eyebrow raised. "Because events are unfolding and I want all able hands back at the Sanctuary. Astara told me you were in High Rock for some errand."

Thérèse sat up and slipped on her boots, still suffering from some grogginess. "But why are you here?" That, that was what made no sense.

He glanced down at her. "A meeting with the Black Hand brought me close to Daggerfall."

She finally stood, blinking at her momentary dizzyness, before grabbing her small bag of items. "Why High Rock?" She finally inquired.

He sighed. "Because, Initiate, Cyrodiil isn't exactly safe. And since the clearing out of Angof, Glenumbra is much more hospitable." He gave her a dark smile, then turned and walked out of the room.

Glancing around to make sure she hadn't left anything, she blew out the candles as she followed him. This was the strangest way to wake up.

They left the Inn in silence, heading towards the docks. Her senses were finally catching up with her, spurred along by the crisp air and glistening stars above her. "Was it really necessary to wake me? I could have taken another boat."

He didn't turn to address her. "The next ship to pass Anvil leaves in four days. Four days is too long for the Sanctuary to go without an able bodied assassin, things as they are."

She could understand that. She hadn't known passage was that sparse. Staying here for four more days sounded vile to her. "Well, I suppose I should be thanking you for waking me then." He grunted in reply. He was wearing dark clothes, but other than that, he was dressed…normal. No Black Hand robe. From behind, he could almost pass as someone else. He looked…nice.

They walked to the docks in silence, and the salty sea air was reminiscent of home. She wondered absently if Terenus thought of the Sanctuary as home, too

Workers were loading cargo onto the ship, but other than that, the docks were silent at this hour. She followed the Speaker up the ramp and onto the ship.

A female voice was addressing him. A familiar voice… "Welcome aboard, Mister Reboius." Thérèse's lip twitched at the fake name, but the voice was _bothering_ her. "Did you get in contact with your friend?"

"Yes, fortunately." Came Terenus' polite reply. When Thérèse stepped up onto the boat, her heart sank.

"Kaleen."

The Captain's eyes narrowed into slits as soon as she made out Thérèse, lip raising in the beginning of a snarl. " _You_! What are _you_ doing on my ship?" The words fell out of her mouth like bitter, poisoned saltrice.

Thérèse's heart sank, but this was only to be expected. "Booking passage with my friend." She said calmly, keeping her face carefully blank.

Kaleen's dark eyes stood out as daggers against her chocolate skin, beauty coiled into hostility like a desert snake. "I said it once and I'll say it again, you are not welcome on the Spearhead, you—"

"Kaleen." A old, muscled Khajiit lept from his perch, striding towards them as if the wooden deck bore him along of it's own will. Master Kasan. "The man has already paid for her passage."

Thérèse blinked, glancing at Terenus. He had?

Kaleen was appropriately nettled by Kasan's disagreement. After all, she _was_ the Captain, not him. But perhaps he was more than a Captain. He was Kasan, master pirate, wise words more numerous than the sand colored hairs covering him. Her frown deepened. "I was just about to tell our friend here that a Bosmer came aboard while he was looking for his _companion_." She growled. "There isn't enough room." Was that even true, or a lie to keep her off of the _Spearhead_?

Terenus was out of it all, eyes flicking lazily from one person to the next. In fact, it looked like he was _enjoying_ it.

Kasan only stared back calmly. "You know we can make room. They are friends, put them in a room together." At this, the assassins both frowned, exchanging glances.

Kaleen finally relented under her mentor's gaze, though it was with a bitter reluctance. "Fine!" She snapped, turning to Thérèse. "But _you_ stay out of my sight." She turned on a heel and stalked away, scimitar sashaying at her side.

Kasan's whiskers twitched as he watched her go, and he sighed. "Forgive her, Teresa-ko, she still smarts from her wounded pride." He gave her a toothy khajiiti smile. "This one is glad to have you on board once more. Let us hope we don't run into another storm, yes?" He gestured for them to follow him below decks. "The Captain was too eager to grant passage to another, but there is a room for two."

Terenus and her exchanged glances. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. What was _she_ thinking?

"Here you are." He said, pointing to an open door. "You should find Neramo and Jakarn when the moon sets, Teresa-ko. They would be pleased to see you." With that, he turned and headed back up onto the deck.

They both stopped in the doorway as they looked at their predicament. They had said it was a two person room. In _size_ it was, but there was only one bed. Her stomach coiled into a tight knot, uneasiness bleeding into her chest.

Terenus turned to her and raised one grim brow. "Flip a coin?" He asked, tongue tight with sarcasm. He studied her face casually, but the flippant curve of his jaw melted away into a frown. Her gaze felt trapped in the silver pools of his eyes, and wisps of memory assaulted her like the acrid smoke of an alchemical fire. The alleyway…a hare caught by a wolverine and screams shoved down through her teeth. She took an involuntary step back, mirrored in contrast to Terenus' swift stalking prowl towards to door, growl almost lost in the ever-creaking belly of the Spearhead.

"Terenus." She said, voice blank and hard and aimed like an order right at his back. The authority in her voice stunned him, perhaps as much as her. She was an _Initiate._ But she had gained herself back and she merely gestured into the room once he'd turned to her. He didn't seem angry at her insubordination, just curious, with a hint of irritation. "Flip a coin." She murmured, with just enough flint in her voice to indicate she meant what she was saying. He was not his father, and simply sharing a _room_ with him didn't engender the same circumstance. She would not allow mere memory to shake her. He paused momentarily before nodding. "I'll take the floor first."

Thérèse moved to protest, fueled by some sort of Breton hospitality, but he waved her unspoken words away with a stiff hand. "A strong wind could topple you, as you are right now."

She nodded, knowing there was little sense in arguing. He was right. She dropped her bag onto the floor and kicked off her boots. Slipping under the covers, she sighed. There was a nagging unease that tugged at her back, willing her to roll over and keep the man in her sights. She clenched her jaw and stared blankly across the room at the worn wood walls.

Silently, she rolled over in the bed, eyes locked on Terenus' back. He was as still as a corpse. So was she. She had no idea when either of them finally fell asleep.

* * *

"Do I even want to know how many notches you've earned on your belt while I was away?" Chuckled Thérèse, looking up at Jakarn.

He sighed and raised a brow. "Not near as many as I'd like, not with Irien around." At that, Thérèse let a full laugh come out of her lips. Irien, one of his unlucky ladies, had sworn to follow him across the seas of Tamriel and sabotage Jakarn's attempts at debauchery. By the Eight, she hadn't thought she was serious.

Jakarn raised a brow. "Now, I never thought I'd see you laugh like that, good-looking." He elbowed her. "Does it have anything to do with Mr. Charming?"

Thérèse rolled her eyes. "He is not charming, Jakarn." Especially not when he wakes you up with a blade to your throat. "He's just a friend." Just a friend?

He nodded, giving her an un-convinced look. "Uh huh, sure. How's life been treating you?"

She shrugged, looking out over the waves. "Good enough. I have…I have a place I belong now, so that's good. Like you."

He chuckled. "Never thought I would. But I didn't think you would either, good-looking."

She narrowed her eyes, gazing out over the turquoise waves. She agreed with him. "Why's that?"

He shrugged. "You're just a weirdly shaped peg. I'm glad you found a hole to fit into." He laughed and nudged her. "Speaking of things fitting into other things." She followed his gaze to see Terenus, speaking with Master Kasan. "Come on, you are _not_ just friends with that guy."

Her face reddened considerably. "Bastard." She growled, turning back to the ocean.

"Oh, so it's that sort of thing…" His voice was patronizing. "The 'I have feelings but I won't acknowledge it' sort of thing. Well, I'll give you some unsolicited advice." Very unsolicited. "If you look at someone and you want to sleep with them? Sleep with them."

There were so many things wrong with what he just said.

Thérèse frowned and fixed her friend with a hard stare. "Jakarn, that's not how you—" Something bumped into them both, something sharp and metallic. "Oh, Clanker." It was Neramo's Dwemer spider pet…thing.

"Oh, sorry, sorry, lost track of him!" Said the harried Altmer, running towards them. "Oh, Thérèse! I heard you were on board!" He grinned. "Sorry, but I don't have any ruins for you to poke around today. Clanker!" He exclaimed, running after his wayward pet. "Just some, calibrations I need to make on the control wand!" He called over his shoulder.

Jakarn laughed at their mutual friend, shaking his head. Then, he turned to look down at her, face suddenly, uncharacteristically serious. "It's your eyes, Thérèse. I can tell by your eyes." He pushed off of the railing, and walked away. It was the first time he'd ever called her by her name.

* * *

It was her turn to take the floor, and it was even harder than it looked originally. Kaleen hadn't wanted her on her boat, but if she wanted her to suffer, this was a pretty good place for it.

 _Speaking of things fitting into other things._ She flushed and closed her eyes even tighter. _Come on, you are not just friends with that guy._ Was she even his friend? She had no idea. _If you look at someone and you want to sleep with them? Sleep with them._ By the Eight! If Jakarn only knew her situation, he'd know that those flippant words could cut deep.

His voice entered her mind. _Do not dally. A throat awaits your blade's sharp kiss._ And she had seen, she had thought she had seen, his eyes drift down to her neck. But why would he do that? She was talking about _her_ attraction, not his! _The kill didn't go as cleanly as you'd hoped, Initiate?_ His fingers had rested there, and her skin had tingled when they pulled away. Absently, she touched her neck, where the faint scar of Dunmer teeth could be seen. Maybe she _was_ attracted to him, but it did not warrant any action. He was the Speaker, and she was an Initiate, as he constantly reminded her. Not to mention…those silver eyes flashing, the shadow of an alleyway…she snapped her mind's eye close with a stern nod. He was not his father.

Her memory pulled away from her, to the subtle curves of Terenus' cruel lips, darkened by shadow, wet with red wine…She growled softly, pushing herself off of the floor and stepping out into the hallway. She needed some fresh air.

What the _hell_ was wrong with her? It'd never bothered her before. His eyes, so much like his father's, had always seemed detached from the legacy they bore. Why _now_ did they sting her like viper's teeth? Why _now_ was she spinning madly like an autumn leaf from one extreme to the other—from fear to attraction?

The stars were winking down at her, and in their number coiled the serpentine sign that marred her birth. A derisive breath parted her dry lips. She always felt the most vulnerable when The Serpent was in the sky. She walked to the side of the boat and grabbed the railings, letting the cool sea air play with her loose curls. It didn't often get to.

Her mother had always worn her hair down, and she looked too much like her when she didn't put hers up.

"You'll catch your death." Out of the dark, out of the dead silence rimmed with lapping waves, accented by dim ship lanterns, his voice unfolded like a raven's feather against her cheek. Her breath caught in her throat. She had thought she was alone, she hadn't even heard his approach. Once his stealth had reconciled with her nerves, she closed her eyes to the breeze and cursed every star in the heavens.  
"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" He ignored her question, just walked up next to her and leaned on the railing. She glanced at his silver eyes, reflecting the light of the ship's lanterns.

He looked up. "What sign?" His voice, dark as ever, seemed to mimic the inky slapping of the waves against the wooden hull.

His unfinished question was obvious in the light of the firmament. "The Serpent." She whispered, voice nearly lost in the wind.

"The most blessed and the most cursed." He murmured, looking into her eyes. Those eyes…

"And you?" She ground out, looking away.

He chuckled, and it was the earthy sound she'd heard when they'd had breakfast in her house all those years ago. Her shoulders uncoiled slightly. The boy in the kitchen, a bit of him was here. "The Lover."

Her lips twitched, and she pressed them together to keep from smiling. "The most graceful and passionate." He shook his head, exhaling roughly. She raised a brow. "From what I've seen of you, it fits."

He blinked. "And what, exactly, _have_ you seen, Initiate?"

Her eyes tilted away to glance at Aetherius. "I've seen your eyes, filled with hatred, filled with intelligence." She relaxed as she verbally separated what she knew of Terenus and Galen. She smiled at herself. Her words must sound ridiculous, but she didn't care, what with the turmoil in her mind. "And you always move with grace."

He raised a brow, eyes shadowed. "Should I be offended at how closely you've been watching me, Initiate?"

He was joking…right? She thought she saw the glint of mischievousness in those silver eyes. "Black on black _is_ very flattering."

He snorted, something akin to laughter. A silence stretched between them, but surprisingly, it wasn't an uncomfortable one. "So what's the story with you and the Captain? It sounds like an interesting one."

Thérèse sighed, feeling her peace fall away. "Perhaps, but very long."

He gestured a steady hand across the ocean palette. "We have plenty of time." His voice was firm, yet inviting. He willed her to speak, but she didn't know exactly why. Curiosity, perhaps?

Thérèse did her best to smooth her features out, to appear as if this story was easy to tell. "I woke up on this ship, after a heavy storm. Kaleen had fished me out of the ocean. She saved my life." A pause. Closed eyes. A breath. "Kasan got me breathing again. It seemed only logical that I would help them out after I awoke. There was a heist she was planning, involving Headman Bhosek." She glanced aside to see Terenus' raised eyebrow. So he did recognize the name. "I helped recruit Jakarn, Neramo, and Lerisa, and together we swiped Bhosek's shipping records."

"A murderer and a thief. I imagine they didn't have you picking any locks."

"No." She said simply, a crease between her brows. Deep in the haze of unpleasant memory, his comment seemed superfluous, and her lips pressed together in compliment to her frown.

From the dark, what could have been a breathless chuckle sounded beside her. "Be calm, Initiate. I am assuming that something else caused the terms of your relationship to change."

 _Be calm, Initiate._ His words were patronizing, but in the flurry of her mind she didn't much care. _Be calm._ It was still wise advise. She brushed the velvet of his words aside, and felt them carry some of her nerve with them.

If there was one thing Thérèse felt remorse for since Coldharbour, it was the way she'd left the _Spearhead_. If she had stayed…been a part of the crew…she probably never would have followed that letter back to the Gold Coast. "We were on good terms, until we arrived on Betnik."

That tiny Orc island had been oddly beautiful. It had the magic and bright plumage of the Summerset Isle, and the cold gloom of High Rock in one oddly wild package. "Angof's minions were trying to use an wanted to raise an army of Aylied ghosts to destroy the Covenant." She frowned, voice taught. "How do you fight the ethereal, the replenish-able?" Absently, her head shook from side to side, and her gaze fell into the dark, formless waves. She had been to the past, played the part, tortured for information, all to find that damned artifact, and they wanted her to _save it?_ "No, we had to stop them. The Covenant would have fallen to them, and then Tamriel. Kaleen is very loyal to King Faharajad. She wanted me to give the artifact to him, to protect the Covenant."

Finally, she let an angry voice hiss out of her throat, aware of how much resentment had been boiling up inside. "What foolishness! He would have no need of the Covenant's protection with that artifact! It would mean war, and that's disregarding the fact that it would be Necromancy—that you would be pulling souls from their rest and cursing them to your reality."

Terenus hummed, a deep sound like the harp's thickest string. "So you destroyed it."

After a pause, Thérèse nodded. "Almost everyone else saw my reasoning. Even Neramo, and he was itching to study the artifact." She sighed, at the bitterness in her own voice. "But not Kaleen."

He narrowed his eyes. "I see." After a moment, he continued. "I would have destroyed it too." When she looked to him in confusion, he smiled cruelly and waved her question away. "Not for nobility, but because it is simple for captured power to be turned against you." He raised a brow. "It is better to keep other man's tools in the realm of mortality, and keep them thinking that we are oppressed by the same rules." Briefly, the Blade of Woe materialized in his hand, all smoke and glinting metal.

She frowned. "How do you do that? I mean, call the Blade of Woe when you're not ready for a kill?" She'd often tried to get a closer look at it, but it would never come when she was idle.

He chuckled grimly. "Perhaps it is just more attuned to me, Initiate. I've called it far more often than you."

Sixteen years of more practice, she supposed. Sixteen years of death, silence, shadows, and glinting metal. But it was more than that…it was sixteen years of wrinkles, of silent dinners, unshared stories. For one brief moment, she imagined a Terenus as lonely as she. _No, not imagined._ She told herself, squinting. It was true, she knew. Lonely people carry themselves with a lightness to their bones that only emptiness can offer. "So, what happened to you after I left?"

"I joined the Brotherhood." He said simply, voice almost melting into the shadows.

Thérèse just sighed. "I _know_ that. What I don't know is how the boy I knew as Fasion turned into a Speaker for the Brotherhood."

He turned, eyes a deep kind of disconcerting. "It's simple, really. I killed many people. Enough blood to paint the Red Road the color of it's namesake, and moat the Imperial City." He snorted. "I do not welcome talks of my past, Initiate."

His past, her past. She supposed she could understand. But, things had been simpler then, before she was fourteen. She'd only seen Fasion at a distance, at the dreaded social events that both of their parents had forced them to. They'd never talked, until the morning of his father's death. "Do you remember," she began, voice light with amusement, "the party that was held for Lord Amonious?" She glanced over to him, face alight with the memory. He said nothing, but she was rewarded with a small, growing smirk. "When he bent down to cut the cake, and that Vintus boy ran up behind him, and just _pushed._ " The scene played back in her mind, retrieved from dusty shelves. The fat, bulbous form of Amonious poised delicately over the large birthday cake…the skinny, jerky limbs of a pubescent boy flying through the air until they hit their mark. "And there was icing everywhere, and he just, sort of…" Her hand tipped forward and she made a sound like blowing wind.

Finally, she heard soft chuckling at her side. "And then, of course, the table broke." Thérèse laughed a little harder, his words completing her memory. "Nothing made of wood with four legs could hold a man of such ostentatious girth."

"By the Eight, I'd never seen the Lady Vintus so angry in my entire life." She had exploded at her son, pulling him away by his ears, too embarrassed to even offer apology to Lord Amonious.

"And the Festival of Kings, in Kvatch, do you remember that?"

He sent her a sideways glance. "Of course." Who couldn't? The lights, the dancing, the drunk men dared to walk through the hedge maze. There had been such music and revelry. On those nights, even a normally proper Monet could be known to slip away from her parents. It was all worth a box on the ears. "You're keen on the past." He smiled dangerously. "What about yourself? I've pieced together parts of your story, but not the entirety of it." He turned his back to the ocean and leaned on the railing, arms folded, eyes latched onto hers.

She frowned. She had so much of a story, it seemed. When had her life started spiraling in circles? It kept turning and turning, hitting upon new duties and destinies with it's outer edge as it fell further and further down. "Which part of my story?"

He huffed. "Your disappearance. One minute you were on Nirn and the next you weren't. I thought I'd lost track of you, but you popped up again in Daggerfall."

So he really had been keeping tabs on her all that time…that was slightly disconcerting. She archived those feelings for later examination and sighed. "That's close to the way I felt." She narrowed her eyes and cast her thoughts back to that day. The details were so hazy. "One minute I was scalding my chickens. The next, I heard screams from the town nearby. Naturally, I ran to see what was going on, and to help if I could."

"Naturally." He intoned, voice dripping with amusement. For the most part, she ignored him.

In her mind's eye, she could see the flashes of blue light…explosions from the heavens…Daedra everywhere… She would spare him the details. "There were too many Daedra to count. Agents of Molag Bal ripped apart the earth but, strangely, not the people." She breathed in sharply. "They needed us." Her pale fingers worried at a thick splinter on the surface of the railing, and her mouth formed a thin line as she observed the distraction. "They took us, transported us using some sort of Daedric portal. We were in a large temple, dome shaped. I think…" Her memory was spotty, and her architectural knowledge recreational at best. "I think it was the Temple of the One." It didn't really matter, did it. "He took us—Mannimarco, King of Worms—and sacrificed us. One by one. Wailing child all the way to arthritic elder." She finally snapped the splinter off of the railing, and her forehead creased as she stared at it. "His blade lingered. You could feel it burning in your body for an eternity as it stole away your soul for the sacrifice." She clenched her jaw and let the splinter fall into the inky water. It didn't even make a sound. "It wasn't just death I felt, but soullessness."

She turned and leaned on the railing as he did, but didn't quite master the nonchalance of his pose. "I woke up in Couldharbour. Molag Bal's realm of Oblivion." She was shivering, but it wasn't that cold. Indeed, the air was quite warm. "There's not much to tell after that. A woman named Lyris Titanborn freed me from my cell. She exchanged herself for The Prophet, and it was he who gave me a physical, mortal form to take in Nirn. Now I help him, and we thwart Mannimarco and Molag Bal wherever we can."

"Thwart." Terenus breathed. "It sounds too noble for you." Then he paused, looked down at her, and turned his gritted teeth into a smirk. "Perhaps not. You're a strange creature, Monet."

"I'm not a creature." She said coolly. "A Breton, a Sorceror, a Murderer, a woman, but not a creature."

"No, not a creature. Not something to be hunted and pressed into a corner like prey." He said knowingly. His air of calm almost dismantled her own, but she took comfort in the fragility of it all. Both of them, unequal in rank, were forced onto common ground by their unsavory past. She realized then, he'd called her by her old name.

Her eyes flicked over to him, then back across the deck of the ship. "Quite." Silence stretched between them like shadows at sunset. The passage of time was marked only by the rhythmic lapping of waves. "Mannimarco is the one pulling the strings in Cyrodiil, you know." She eventually murmured. "Tharn works for him, and Clivia undoubtably takes her father's advice."

Terenus was staring straight ahead, across the width of the empty deck. "I care not about the governments of this world. Governments fall to Sithis, and the Void fills with their blood." He narrowed his eyes. "However, I have no wish for Tamriel to be ruled by Daedra. The Brotherhood would suffer without the trimmings of society to cover up the ills of mankind." Pausing, he glanced at her. "Should you need to do some heroic thwarting, you have my permission, as long as your loyalty to the Brotherhood comes first."

Thérèse's blinked and stared at him. She had expected to fight tooth and nail to get him, or Astara, to let her leave the Gold Coast more often. The Brotherhood was their life, their religion, and she hadn't expected either of them to understand.

He shook his head. "Don't look so surprised, Initiate. The Night Mother does not look fondly upon those who steal the souls of her children."

The Night Mother… "Thank you, then."

He nodded, arms crossed tight against his chest. His teeth clenched, and for a moment, he looked to be in pain. Thérèse frowned. "You have my sympathy, Thérèse, for what happened. For whatever that's worth." He pulled away from the railing and headed back towards the room.

She blinked, and though her eyebrows knotted, she smiled. "It's worth plenty, Terenus." She didn't know if he'd heard her, for the wind stole away her words.


End file.
